Trust Me

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  I shiver, haunted that I still have to write the chapter about the crime scene testimony. Pushing a rattling orange shopping cart, hoping the ice cream I left in the Subaru won’t melt the backseat into a sticky disaster, I now pretend I’m scouting for hardware items instead of for a certain college student. I see no name tag with Kelsie. No Chelsea, or Chelsie, or anything like that.

  A clerk whose tag says Loris, her logoed baseball cap barely fitting over her gray curls, is zeroing in on me.

  “May I help you?”

  “Oh, thank you,” I flutter. Here I go. “Um, my husband was working with a ‘Kelsie’? He said to ask for her.”

  People always believe it if you say your husband told you to do something.

  “Which Kelsie?” Loris, tilting her head, wants to be helpful. “There are two.”

  That narrows it down. Good. “Oh, gosh. She’s in school.”

  “Kelsie G,” Loris says. “Sorry, though, she’s not here.”

  “Kelsie G, yes.” I smile. “How do you spell her name? I’ll tell the hubs for next time.”

  “No idea,” she admits. “It’s one of those names.”

  One of those names. Starts with G.

  I look at my watch. “Oh, the time,” I say. “Got to start dinner. He can just come back himself, then. Men, right?”

  “Men,” Loris agrees.

  By the time I get home, the afternoon is fading into a shimmer of twilight. The days are getting shorter, a few seconds each evening, but it’s still stubbornly summer. As if to prove it, the crickets are “cwicking,” in Sophie-speak. Dex and I once Googled to remember how to calculate the temperature by counting cricket chirps. Someone’s mowing a lawn, someone’s cooking out with charcoal. The fragrance makes me almost woozy. Dex insisted on grilling, although everything came out charred. I hope I never complained.

  I shut off my brain before I get to Sophie and the toasted marshmallows she craved. My ice cream, mushy and sweating, fits into the freezer after I shove over Liz and Ezra Rayburn’s condolence lasagna to make room. A puff of condensed cold hits my face as I close the door.

  One of those names. Starts with G. Do I have any responsibilities about Juror G? To get her removed?

  If I call Quinn … should I call Quinn? She ordered me never to contact her again.

  I open the swivel cabinet next to the fridge, stack in the soup cans. Jurors are not supposed to discuss their case. With anyone. Does “hate it” count as discussing? It might simply be a throwaway.

  But I know that a female juror whose last name begins with G is talking to her daughter about the trial. And that daughter is casually chatting about those opinions—“guilty”—with at least one of her teenaged BFFs who, in turn, is casually discussing that with strangers.

  I stash the celery, which, as always, does not fit into the vegetable drawer. Is Juror G’s behavior outrageous? Or insignificant? Meaningless? Or illegal?

  Dex would remind me that it’s a violation of the juror’s oath to voice an opinion—even have an opinion—before all the evidence is presented. If Juror G already believes Ashlyn is guilty, Dex would insist Quinn McMorran should know. It would mean that juror was not impartial. It would “infect” the deliberations.

  Royal Spofford would certainly like to know, too. Wonder what he’d do? Knowing a juror had already been convinced? Or didn’t need convincing?

  I take my last purchase, the Syrah, out of the bag. I hide it behind the toaster, out of reach.

  Hey. If Juror G thinks Ashlyn Bryant is guilty, she’s nothing but right. Who am I to interfere? Not my responsibility.

  Pulling out Dex’s kitchen chair, I sit at the table, click on my tablet, and with a last longing look at the wine, choose a trial segment. The crime scene evidence. This’ll be a test of so many things. My stomach, and my determination, and my sanity. And maybe Ashlyn’s.

  I’ll turn off my emotions. Pretend it’s not real. That’s how I’ll deal with this. It’s a story. I push Play.

  In the video courtroom, I see a glowing laptop that’s cabled next to a gizmo in the center of a wheeled metal cart. Full-color photographs, in excruciating detail, are projected onto a big screen, one after the other. The green plastic trash bag, shredded and torn. What was left of Tasha’s face, pale bone showing through matted sandy hair. One purple barrette, hanging on for dear life. It’s not real.

  The photos are in sharp focus. Tasha’s skull, whiter than white. Dense brown debris cocoons it, embeds the vacant eye sockets. Filmy tendrils of seaweed twist around the longer bones. The TV camera shot shifts, thank heaven, to show viewers the witness and the district attorney.

  “What are these?” DA Spofford touches the screen in three places with a wooden pointer.

  “Bites.” Crime scene tech Patricia Ruocco sits on the stand. Shoulders square. Severe black-rimmed glasses, white shirt. All business.

  “Human?” Spofford asks.

  “No. The markings indicate aquatic creatures.”

  Ruocco confirms the plastic bag also contained three strips of duct tape, a disintegrating white blanket, and what looked like a once-pink water-soaked stuffed animal.

  “What kind of a stuffed animal?” Spofford almost whispers his question.

  “Possibly a rabbit.”

  I cannot watch this. A rabbit? A rabbit? I try to still my heart, try to stop my tears. Lots of little girls have stuffed rabbits. This is not Sophie. This is—was—Tasha. I sit up straighter, as stiff-backed and steel-willed as the crime scene tech. She and I have exactly the same job. To let people know this murder will not be tolerated.

  The rabbit picture clicks away.

  But now we see a close-up of those pink leggings, a jagged rip in one side seam. The striped T-shirt, disturbingly tiny, soaked out of shape. I count to five, take a sip of water, look out the study window into the twilight. The pictures are not real.

  “What is that?” Spofford points again. “That, and that?”

  “Duct-tape glue,” Ruocco says. “On the victim’s lower mandible.”

  “Chin, mouth, and nose?” Spofford translates.

  “Yes.”

  Duct tape. I feel my stomach turn, almost hearing the sound of the tape tearing, tasting how it would feel to have it plastered over my mouth. Sophie’s mouth. I can’t breathe.

  Ashlyn has pulled her cardigan up to her chin. She’s head down, huddled, and wiping away tears. The judge had warned people to leave if they worried they could not handle the photos.

  “Too bad you can’t leave, you witch,” I tell the screen.

  And it gives me some horrible pleasure to know that there’s one person in the jury box who I know agrees with me. Juror G thinks Ashlyn Bryant killed her daughter. I will happily chronicle the day the jury verdict confirms that.

  I push Stop. The final gruesome images, skull and seawater, fade to black. I take a deep breath, trying not to think about crime scene photos. I never saw the ones of Dex and Sophie, after the tree, although they must exist. My entire life faded to black after that. I never read the newspaper stories about it, never watched the TV coverage. If there even was any. I don’t talk about it. Not ever. What happened was an accident. No one’s fault. The final police report confirmed that. But now, it seems, my conscience is coming to life.

  In the stillness of our kitchen, I can almost hear Dex’s voice. He’d remind me that if someone hears about the biased juror after the verdict, and as a result McMorran appeals, Ashlyn could get a new trial.

  That would completely suck. Plus, my book would be toast.

  Should I tell Quinn McMorran? She insisted that I never contact her again, so hey, if I don’t, it’s her own fault. Right. I’m not gonna call.

  A car alarm goes off outside. It shatters the silence, clanging for attention. A car. Alarm. A warning. It’s a message from Dex. I know it is.

  Fine. Okay. I hear you.

  “Hi, Quinn. It’s Mercer Hennessey.” I keep my voice casual as I leave the message on her cell. “Sorry it�
�s so late, but I thought ten might be okay. I know you told me not to call, but it’s…” I hesitate, wanting to entice her to call me back without giving anything away, “… truly something you might be interested in. Call me, okay? Any time.”

  That was two hours ago. I waited in my study, working, but now it’s too late for her to call me back. At least I tried. And I finished writing the scene revealing the moment police found the smoking gun. Ashlyn’s computer searches for chloroform.

  Chloroform? I write on my list. That is … perplexing. Everyone in the world—don’t they?—knows prosecutors still believe the notorious Casey Anthony killed her daughter with chloroform. Like Ashlyn, Casey was charged with her young daughter’s murder, but Casey Anthony was acquitted. Ashlyn must have been aware of that—she was, maybe fourteen when it happened? As in Ashlyn’s case, the press coverage was relentless, the grisly details irresistible water-cooler scandal.

  Casey and Ashlyn’s lives are similar in other ways too, now that I think of it, but so are the lives of any number of pretty-ish nightclubbing man-hungry party girls. Still. Did Ashlyn do research on Casey? Study the endless TV documentaries and step-by-step dramatizations? Did she take how-to-get-away-with-murder lessons from the case of the not-guilty Casey Anthony?

  Murder lessons. That makes my skin crawl.

  According to my research, it takes five minutes to incapacitate a person with chloroform. Five horribly unimaginably writhing minutes. A shorter time, my online medical text explains, if the patient’s body is very small.

  I pause for a second, imagining small bodies. Take a sip of wine, but my glass is empty. I can almost hear the buzz of the halogen light pin-spotting my desk. Sophie was so small, both of her feet would fit into one of Dex’s shoes. I still have those shoes.

  Times like now, right now, my therapist had told me, I have to pull myself out of the darkness. Back to reality. Ashlyn Bryant is on trial for first-degree murder. With premeditation, malice aforethought, and extreme cruelty. Duct tape. And chloroform.

  I look at my silent phone. Apparently Quinn doesn’t care what I have to say about the talkative Juror G. Does anyone?

  And then I have an idea. But too late to do it now. Tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  No answer on the first ring. I hear the second begin as I jam my cell phone to my ear, watch the newspaper delivery guy toss the Wednesday morning Globe at my porch, and reassess my decision. A reporter calling another reporter? I’d gotten up earlier than usual, surprisingly awake, surprisingly—to me, since there’s no one else to be surprised—eager to begin my day. Third ring now.

  The numbers had remained on my mirror this morning a tiny bit longer than usual. Maybe the weather is changing? I watched, as always, as the lingering numbers began to fail, using the time to say hello to Sophie and Dex.

  “I miss you every moment,” I said aloud. “And everything I do, I do for you.” The numbers disintegrated as I talked, making me hurry to finish. “Dex, honey, thank you, I’m using what you taught me, too. It’s all for you, all for you both.” I paused, the numbers almost gone to memory. “You know I love you,” I whispered.

  By then it was 7:30. I made the call. The fourth ring doesn’t finish.

  “Rissinelli,” a voice answers.

  What if he doesn’t remember me? “Hi, Joe. It’s Mercer Hennessey. I’m—”

  “Hey. Mercer. Long time.” A pause. “Ah. How are you?”

  Of course. “Fine,” I say. “Listen. Uh, just between us?”

  “Well, probably.” Joe takes the middle ground. “What’s up?”

  I’d considered how much I could tell him, how much it would take to lure him into talking to me, how much it might matter in the long run. I’d practiced the conversation last night in bed, mentally playing both roles as I always do before an important interview.

  “About the Bryant trial. I’m—and please keep this under your hat—writing about it.” I’ll let him assume it’s for the magazine.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not at the courthouse,” I go on.

  “I was just thinking that.”

  “And I know you have your real work to do there. But I’m hoping you might let me interview you. Give some of the vaunted Rissinelli perspective.”

  Silence. It’s tough for a journalist to convince another journalist to talk. All the usual gambits fail, because the other guy sees them coming a mile away.

  “Unless there’s a mistrial of course,” I go on, like we’re big news buddies. “Then we’re all doomed.”

  “Look, Mercer,” Joe says. “I’m interested. I’m a fan, used to love your stuff. Why don’t we grab of coffee at Courthouse Square deli? At like, 9:15. Before today’s session starts at 10. On background. Go from there.”

  Gotcha.

  “Sure,” I say. “Meet you then.”

  HOTTEST TICKET IN TOWN

  Every court has its regulars. There are the retired sixty-somethings who don’t want to be cooped up in some apartment. The detective wannabes. The Perry Mason fans and the CSI aficionados who think they know about crime scenes and forensics. The sickos, and the ghouls. Those looking for cheap thrills, and those hoping for justice.

  “What kind of mother would murder her own child?” one woman in a green Criminal Minds T-shirt told a reporter. “This is the hottest ticket in town!”

  Some days people camped out, stayed overnight on the bumpy concrete tundra of Courthouse Square, sleeping on inflated air mattresses under the buzzy security lights and the September stars interrupted by the Boston city skyline, then making a mad dash to the ticket line when it assembled at 5:30 A.M.

  After the first day, trial-watchers figured out their own system for keeping the first-come first-served situation fair. A flame-haired woman they called “The Sharpie Lady” wrote indelible magic marker numbers on the back of attendees’ hands, indicating their place in the line.

  By 9:05, I’ve typed that scene on my laptop, sitting in a ridiculously uncomfortable metal chair at a tippy wrought-iron table on what Courthouse Square Deli calls its “deck,” more accurately the restaurant’s pigeon-magnet outdoor-seating area.

  The deck gives me an unobstructed view of the courthouse plaza. A single line of courtroom hopefuls starts up at the big double doors, continues down the ten or so shallow marble steps, and spreads out onto the concrete courtyard. The sun is already blasting, and a few attendees carry shade-providing umbrellas. I squint to see if they have Sharpie numbers on their hands, as the Herald described, but I can’t see that far. I’ll confirm it with Joe. That’ll be a good way to start the conversation, let him be the smart and knowledgeable one.

  All seems peaceful on Trial Day Six. I attempt to sip my bitter deli coffee, in a paper cup just in case.

  The morning shadows shift, and I scoot my chair a half-turn to keep my eyes on the front door and the pack of wannabe attendees gathering. If the judge decides that Spofford asking Georgia if she thought her daughter killed her granddaughter is objectionable enough to call a halt to the entire trial, everyone will have to go home. The idea is more bitter than my coffee.

  Driving here, my radio’s morning news was full of speculation. Speculation is all anyone has.

  “I mean, if Ashlyn Bryant didn’t do it, who did?” one commentator sneered. “The poor defense attorney is grasping at straws.”

  I see both sides. If there’s a mistrial, clearly the Commonwealth will bring charges again, and it’ll all start over. On the other hand, if the jury can’t make a fair decision, the legal system requires a do-over. What if I were the accused? What would I believe was fair? What would I want?

  That’s why I have to tell Joe about the juror. Dex would want me to.

  My cell phone pings a text. It’s Joe. SORRY, it says. Call u later.

  I frown. Sorry? And, call you later? Why’d he change his mind? What’s more, something’s happening on the courthouse plaza. A hum from the line of spectators, like a buzz of instant conversation, i
s growing in intensity.

  My reporter instincts are killing me. Maybe the Sharpies have gotten wind of something. I stash my still-wrapped bagel-with-light-cream-cheese in my tote bag, then peel a two-buck tip from my wallet and tuck it under the faceted glass and chrome saltshaker. And go.

  I smile at the Sharpies as I reporter-walk past them up the courthouse steps. “Press,” I explain, so they don’t call the line police. I have on my confident look. Done this a million times. “What’s up?”

  “No comment,” one man says. He turns away from me, adjusting a black baseball cap.

  I try not to laugh. Like I care what this guy’s comment would be. People watch too much TV. Scanning the next few people in line, I try to detect someone who’s civil and rational. “Why all the buzz?” I ask a young woman in red jeans. “Is anything special going on?”

  “Not that we know of, ma’am,” she says. Her hand shows a black inked 7. “Around now’s when we get to see the lawyers come in. We’re all saying there’s gonna be a mistrial, and—”

  “Not all of us,” the man turns back, interrupting. His hand is numbered 2. I don’t see a number 1.

  “Thanks.” I power through the heavy front door, revolving out of the morning sunshine and into the dusty gloom of the dark-paneled courthouse. Formerly an expanse of black-diamond marble floor and lofty architecture, the grand entryway is now blockaded by an ugly gray metal detector, a rubber conveyor belt, and two grim-faced rent-a-guards. Just a week ago there was bomb threat here. False alarm or not, I feel the lingering edge of suspicion.

  “Hi guys,” I’m smiling and congenial to the guards, nothing to worry about here, as I dig for my press pass. The scene is so familiar, my muscle memory slips back into journalist mode. Joe Riss didn’t show, but since I’m here anyway, maybe I can get a seat at the actual trial. I’d love to see Ashlyn in real life. Georgia and Tom, too. If there’s a mistrial, it’d be Georgia’s testimony that caused it. Wonder how she’d feel about that? The trial she essentially started—ending because of her?