by Lisa Gardner
And Quincy said, “Not when he was with Melissa Avalon.”
ELEVEN
Wednesday, May 16, 4:46 P.M.
SANDY O’GRADY KEPT THINKING that Danny was dead.
Small communities had their rituals, their established ways of dealing with the major passages of life. Almost all involved food. Someone was getting married—bake the bride’s favorite bread and tape the recipe card to the baking tin for her future kitchen. Someone was having her first child—pile up the homemade sugar cookies cut into the shape of little booties. A graduation barbecue—bring Mama’s award-winning three-bean salad. The yearly race to bale hay before the Oregon rains ruined the crop—bring fresh corn and tomatoes from the garden, plus bags of sugar and rock salt for the ice cream maker. Maybe include a package of chocolate chips.
Someone died—bring out the casseroles. Dad’s ham and potato surprise. Grandma’s seven-layer taco supreme. Bake a ham, baste a turkey. Make it big, hearty, and rich. And deliver it with plenty of Kleenex and a shoulder for the widow to lean upon. Then return two days later with a pan of brownies or a couple of apple pies. Sooner or later even the most stoic survivors turned to sugar for solace. It’s simply a way of life.
Yesterday evening, on the O’Grady front doorstep, the first casserole had appeared. It was accompanied by a note that said Deepest sympathies. No name attached. Sandy realized then how bad the days would be. Neighbors understood their torment. Some even sympathized. But in these circumstances no one knew what to do.
When Danny had been transported to Cabot County’s juvenile detention hall, he’d been wearing a bulletproof vest.
The police had spent the evening in the O’Gradys’ home. Men Sandy and Shep had never seen before, wearing grim expressions and navy blue windbreakers emblazoned with the letters CSU, cordoned off Danny’s room. They pulled apart his bed, disemboweled his closet. They tore into his desk, dismantled his furniture, and boxed up everything he had ever touched. They shredded Danny O’Grady’s bedroom, dusted it down with fingerprint powder, then left as somberly as they came.
Becky hid in the coat closet.
Sandy’s parents came over. They hugged Sandy and wept. They pulled Becky from the closet and cried harder. They looked at Shep stonily, so he would know that whatever had happened, it was his fault. Then Sandy’s mother moved into the kitchen and started baking. Her father sat on the couch and did his best to look strong.
The parish priest had paid a visit. He sat with Sandy and Shep. He reminded them that the Lord gave no burdens that could not be borne. He assured them faith would get them through this time of sorrow. He took to speaking of Danny in the past tense, which at once seemed natural and nearly drove Sandy out of her mind.
Danny was not dead. Danny was not a burden. He was a confused and frightened boy, lying now in an institutionally gray juvenile hall with bars on the windows. He was in a state of shock, the doctors told Sandy and Shep when they tried to visit this morning. Curled up tight with his arms wrapped around his knees, as if he was so exhausted by life he was trying to return to the womb.
No, they couldn’t see him yet. He needed more time and more sleep. Maybe tomorrow.
Sandy didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to return to a house that magically produced casseroles and to a mother who was turning out row after row of pies as if a properly fluted crust was the secret to managing life. She didn’t want to spend another minute with the priest who had married her and Shep and who now looked at them with the solemn compassion usually reserved for lepers. She didn’t want to stare at her garage, where early this morning someone had scrawled Baby Killer with dripping red paint.
Danny was not a stone-cold killer. He was a child. He was her child, and she wanted her family back! She wanted to be a warrior mom, slayer of all dragons for her children.
Except no one could tell her which dragon to slay. No one could tell her what had happened yesterday afternoon to turn her eight-year-old daughter into a silent ghost and her thirteen-year-old son into a mass murderer.
Now their lawyer, Avery Johnson, was speaking with them in their kitchen. They had just returned from the preliminary hearing in front of the juvenile-court judge, where Sandy had been shocked by the informality of the proceedings. The room had looked little different from a high school classroom, with its plain white walls and linoleum-tiled floor. The judge, wearing a dark robe, clearly was surprised to see two lawyers in suits. His opening comment had been “You guys don’t come here often, do you?”
In this very simple room with very simple proceedings, the county DA, Charles Rodriguez—a man Shep had worked with for years, a man Sandy had invited to her house for dinner on numerous occasions—formally filed a petition for waiver to adult court given the “heinous nature of Daniel O’Grady’s crimes against the community.”
He’d charged their son with five counts of aggravated murder, one count for the first victim and two counts for each additional victim as they were part of a multiple homicide. If found guilty in adult court, Danny could receive five consecutive thirty-year-to-life sentences. He had gone into the care of the county yesterday evening. He would never come home again.
Sandy kept thinking that Danny was dead.
“Now, you have to look on the bright side,” Avery Johnson was saying. “Danny’s only thirteen years old. He has statistics on his side.”
“Statistics?” Sandy asked weakly. She was mangling a piece of freshly baked apple pie. Her mother had served it with a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream just ten minutes ago. Sandy watched the ice cream melt into little flowing rivers, then she formed dams with bits of baked apple. After a moment Shep took her plate and ate the pie himself. In times of crisis, he always gained an appetite while she lost hers.
“In the upcoming hearing,” Avery was saying, “we must argue what’s in the best interest of the child and the community. Basically, a waiver hearing focuses on two key aspects of Danny’s personality: Does he pose too great a risk to others to be sufficiently handled by the juvenile system, and is he amenable to rehabilitation? Naturally, the DA is going to argue that Danny’s act proves he’s a dangerous felon beyond all hope of rehabilitation, thus he falls outside the jurisdiction of juvenile court. The judge should cart the child away to adult court, which has the means to handle a master criminal.
“Our job is to prove otherwise, and the good news is that the statistics are in our favor. The majority of children who commit violent acts won’t reoffend in adulthood. Furthermore, and we must emphasize this, studies show that there is a higher chance of recidivism with a child who is incarcerated with adults than with a child who is held in juvenile facilities. Thus, it is in the state’s own best interest to keep Danny in juvenile jurisdiction, where he can be rehabilitated and then start over on his twenty-fifth birthday as a productive member of society.”
“You’re assuming Danny is guilty,” Sandy said shortly. “Why are you assuming that my son is guilty?”
Avery, an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and expensive suits, gave her a faint smile. He had eaten his pie within minutes, then gently patted his upper lip with his paper napkin as if it had been made of the finest linen. Sandy wasn’t sure if she liked him yet. She thought he might be too pompous, too rich and oozing of success for her taste. But Shep had been taken with him since they first met at some law-enforcement function where Avery was the keynote speaker. Shep went so far as to call him a “friend,” though Sandy knew that wasn’t really true. Avery Johnson moved in circles beyond them. He lived in a gorgeous home in Lake Oswego and was hardly taking this case out of the goodness of his heart. Sandy imagined the man charged five hundred dollars an hour and was racking up billable time even as he ate their pie.
She did not know how they were going to pay him. She had no idea what kind of lies Shep must have fed the man about their financial circumstances to even get him to show up. She just knew that Shep wanted Avery Johnson. He was the best there was and Shep wouldn’t hear of anything
less for his son. That was his idea of fatherhood, and it both enraged Sandy and broke her heart.
“Sandy, you can rest assured that I will never let a jury think your son is guilty.” Avery smiled at her again. “But we’re not at a jury trial yet. Six months from now it will be Charles Rodriguez and myself ‘discussing’ Danny’s future with Judge Matthews, who, frankly, is a miserable old fart who would like to bring back corporal punishment to public schools. He probably does think Danny is guilty. He probably thinks Danny should hang. Fortunately, that’s not germane to the hearing. At this point we’re simply addressing which court should have jurisdiction over the case. So I need to argue that, guilty or not, Danny’s—and the community’s—interests are best served by keeping this case in juvenile court.”
“Because even if he’s a mass murderer now, when he grows up he’ll be magically cured?”
“Exactly. And there’s nothing magical about it. I’ve been reading articles on juvenile crime all night, and the experts call it ‘desistance phenomenon.’ From ages twelve to eighteen, male teens exhibit a spike of criminal activity as their rise in hormones and developmental changes outpace their coping skills. Then at eighteen, as they become adults, get jobs, and find more permanent relationships, they settle down. Criminal activity falls off, and even teens once described as ‘troubled’ go on to lead normal lives.”
“So if Danny is innocent, he’s innocent. But if he’s guilty, he’s merely going through a phase? That’s what we’re going to argue in court?” Sandy’s voice was becoming shrill. She couldn’t help herself. It sounded ludicrous. It sounded insane.
Shep shot her an impatient stare. “For God’s sake, Sandy, what do you want to hear? He just told you his job is to keep Danny out of adult court, and this is the way he can do it.”
“Sandy—” Avery began soothingly.
Sandy cut him off. “I don’t know what I want to hear! Maybe that my only son is not capable of killing three people. Maybe that my firstborn child is not a murderer, it’s all been a big mistake.” She slammed her hand down on the table.
“Look at you two, discussing legal theory as if it makes a difference. This isn’t a ball game. It doesn’t boil down to who wins or loses at the end of the night. This is our son! This is our community! How are we going to walk down the streets if Danny is found guilty? What are we going to tell Becky? My God, Shep, didn’t you see what they wrote on our garage? They’re going to kill him. Our neighbors hold Danny responsible for the murder of two little girls, and sooner or later someone is going to kill him. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
Sandy pushed back from the table. She got up, paced four steps around the tiny kitchen, then realized she was crying uncontrollably. Shep did not get up to console her. Last night he had tried to come to her bed after months of sleeping on the sofa. His voice had sounded ragged. He’d told her he just wanted to hold her. Maybe they could put aside their differences for a while. Once, they’d been good friends.
Sandy’s anger had been too tight in her chest. She had looked at her husband, the father of her children, raw and vulnerable with his big shoulders sagging, and all she could think was that if Danny had been driven to murder, it was Shep’s fault. He pushed the boy too hard. He had never appreciated that Danny was different, more intellectual, more like her. Instead, Shep had tried to force him into his arrogant, macho world.
He had broken their son. He had broken their family. Sandy hated him.
And then, as abruptly as the emotion had overcome Sandy, it ripped through her body and she had nothing left. She stood in their kitchen empty, exhausted, and swaying on her feet.
She turned toward the doorway and there was Becky, watching her with somber blue eyes.
“Don’t let the monster get you, Mommy,” Becky said. Then she turned and walked back into the family room, where Sandy’s parents were watching TV.
Sandy returned to the table and had a seat.
“I know this is an emotional time for you,” Avery began.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sandy said.
Shep sighed heavily, got up, and cut himself a third piece of pie.
“Look,” Avery said briskly, “let me walk you through the whole process. Maybe by the end it will be clearer to you what we’re trying to accomplish. The next six to twelve months are going to be crucial to Danny’s future.”
Sandy held up a hand. “Why do we have to wait six to twelve months?”
“Because it’s going to take that long for everyone to prepare for the waiver-motion hearing. It’s not a small thing.”
“But Danny can’t come home, can he? You said there’s no bail for juveniles accused of murder. So what is this? My son isn’t even on trial yet, isn’t even found guilty of murder, and he’s going to spend at least six months locked up in a juvenile detention hall? For God’s sake, how can that be legal?”
“It’s the way the system works.”
“Well, fuck the system!” Sandy was beyond reason and knew it.
Avery Johnson gave her that small, soothing smile again. Then his voice got sharp. “Mrs. O’Grady, I know you don’t want to hear this, but there is a good chance that Danny committed these crimes. He was found holding Shep at gunpoint. He brought your family’s guns to the school, and, furthermore, he confessed twice.”
“He’s in shock. You said so yourself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“The guns, Mrs. O’Grady. The guns. How did two handguns get from your safe to the school?”
Sandy looked at Shep helplessly. He stabbed the air with his ice-cream-covered fork. “My son didn’t do it,” he said stoically.
For the first time, Sandy felt a rush of warmth toward her husband.
Avery Johnson said sternly, “You’re a police officer, Shep, and not even you can prove your son’s innocence—”
“I will—”
“You can’t—”
“I got six months.”
Avery Johnson sighed. He clearly thought they were both in denial. He tried again:
“Even if you manage to explain away how your guns came to be at that crime scene, why your son held you hostage, and why your son confessed twice to three murders, the fact remains that Danny is a troubled boy. He obviously has issues. Thus, all legal necessities aside, as parents you should be able to see the value of the next six months as an opportunity to get Danny the help he needs. He’ll be examined by child-development experts. He’ll take a battery of psychological exams. He’ll have his childhood, his family, his friends, all thoroughly explored. While I’m sure it may be awkward at times, the result should be a better understanding of who Danny is and what problems he’s facing. Does that make sense?”
Sandy finally considered the matter. She glanced at Shep, who was rolling a bite of pie around in his mouth in a manner that indicated he didn’t really taste it. She could tell the lawyer’s words had depressed him; his shoulders had slumped again. Danny had problems. Danny had issues. It was Shep’s way to deny all things he didn’t like to hear, but he had no more words left. The lawyer’s comments had struck too close to the secret doubts in their hearts. What if Danny was troubled? What if they had turned their little boy into a monster?
There were such dark shadows beneath her husband’s eyes. Sandy had to look away.
She knew that after leaving her room last night, Shep had lain down on the floor next to Becky’s bed. Their little girl had refused offers to sleep in her parents’ room, instead building a wall of stuffed animals around her bed. Big Bear, her favorite doll, was reserved for special bodyguard duty. Hannah the horse was positioned at the door. Twelve Beanie Babies cordoned off the windowsill. Pugsley the dog was handed over to Sandy, just in case she needed protecting too.
Becky whimpered many times in the middle of the night. Once, around three A.M., Shep caught her leaping out of bed and running for her closet. When he tried to shake her awake, she whimpered harder, so he finally carried her back to bed with Big Bear. Becky mumbled
for him to look out for monsters before falling more deeply asleep.
At six A.M. Shep moved to the couch in the family room. At seven A.M., when Sandy went to check on Becky, she found her curled up in the far corner of the closet, four dresses pulled down to hide her gleaming blond hair.
Becky still hadn’t said anything about what had happened yesterday, and the doctors predicted she never would. Whatever she had experienced was too traumatic for her eight-year-old mind, and she was now working resiliently to lock it all away. Sandy and Shep were instructed to make their daughter feel safe, while being careful not to sound dismissive of her fears. Whatever that meant.
Sandy had the feeling she and Shep were aging exponentially these days. She would dearly love to pick up the phone to speak with Margaret or Liz or Margie about it, the way the four mothers had been comparing notes on their children for the last six years. Except she couldn’t do that. Her children might be suffering, but her son was supposedly the cause of everyone’s pain. It was now her job as his mother to pay his dues.
“What . . . what if Danny did do it?” Sandy ventured for the first time, staring tremulously at the rich, successful Avery Johnson, who held their future in his hands. “What if all the experts study Danny and conclude that he is a killer?”
“This is what I’ve been trying to explain. The point of this trial isn’t to say that Danny is a killer; it’s to evaluate whether he will kill again. Juvenile court is going to appoint a forensic psychologist to evaluate Danny, his personality, past behavior, violent tendencies, et cetera. There is a whole range of parameters this psychologist will analyze, hence it takes some time. When he’s done studying Danny, the expert will write up a report. In this case, given the seriousness of Danny’s alleged crime, the forensic psychologist will probably make two statements. One will say, presuming Danny did commit mass murder, he has X percent chance of killing again. If he didn’t commit mass murder, he has Y percent chance of being rehabilitated.”
