Criminal

by Terra Elan McVoy

  For once, the day went by pretty fast. After dinner, I tried to write to Jamelee while Priscilla and a bunch of others went to the nightly AA meeting. After several tries though, I hadn’t gotten anywhere. Writing about the day, and my new friends, made life in here seem almost normal. Normal like I used to have with Bird, helping her in her kitchen, cutting up with Kenyetta or whoever. Remembering how my real life used to be—picturing what she’d have to say about these women I was wanting to think of as my friends—made me miss Bird in a shadowy place just under the edges of my ribs. And missing Bird made me miss Dee.

  To forget both of them, I watched TV with everyone instead. Before lights-out—as we were cleaning things up in the common room and getting ready to head off to brush our teeth—Bindi slipped past, handed me two envelopes and a book of stamps.

  IN THE MORNING, I LOOKED AT THE THREE LETTERS I’D written to Jamelee. I wasn’t sure if Bird, seeing where they were from, would even open them. I thought for a long time about not sending them at all. I could keep them, maybe, and give them to Jamelee when I was out. When she was older. But that didn’t feel right either. So I folded them up quick and stuck them in the envelope, wrote Bird’s address, fast. Nervous as it made me, uncertain as I was about what they said or why I’d even written them, I knew they had to go out in the world.

  THAT AFTERNOON A NEW PRISONER GOT TRANSFERRED into our block. Right away, the other girls started giggling and fussing over her. Priscilla muttered that it was probably because she’d snuck in pills, which made me feel extra strange about paying her any attention, but when Bindi led her over to me, I told her to sit down. Asked her what she wanted me to do to her hair.

  I wasn’t too long into it when a guard called for me. Because Doug was here.

  The guard took me to the same conference room where I’d met him before. Right away he stood up. I didn’t know how to feel, seeing him. Was he mad at me? Did he want to stop being my lawyer? I looked at him for clues. His face was small, pale. Suit still too big for him. The guard shut the door behind her, stood outside, and watched us through the glass window.

  “Hello, Nikki.”

  “Doug.”

  He started talking, and pretty quick I realized this time I was actually following what he was saying. He seemed to notice and relaxed more. After what had happened at my arraignment, he explained, things became complicated. Refusing to speak, even after being prompted by both Doug and the judge (which I didn’t really remember), was the same as a not-guilty plea. Which meant I was going to have to go through a trial.

  “And, in this case, unless there’s proof that you were truly coerced by Mr. Pavon at the time or out of your mind on drugs, though even then nothing’s guaranteed—”

  He stopped, looking at me. Hoping I would say it had been drugs. That maybe I didn’t even remember that day, really. Didn’t remember ever talking to the detectives. He was hoping I’d tell him I’d done it because—but I didn’t know what. The only drug I’d been on was love. The only thing that made me insane was my desire to please Dee. And I knew, even if it was true, that wasn’t going to hold up in any kind of court.

  Doug saw the expression on my face and went on. “I’m just not sure there’s a lot for us to do, Nikki, to be honest. I mean, I’ll defend you, of course, to the best of my abilities. I’ve already gotten some background information on Mr. Pavon, and I can certainly demonstrate that you were under an incredibly bad influence. Gang background. Prior suspect in another murder. Robbery. But with these lies of yours, Nikki, and the confession, with a jury . . .”

  His eyes met mine.

  But it was hard to think past the other things he’d said about Dee: “prior murder,” “gang background,” and “robbery.” It was bringing Dee too close to me again, and I didn’t want to see any of it. I couldn’t cling to the need of him—not if I wanted to survive—but this new bright reality was too much. I still wanted at least a tiny scrap of the old him left for me to hold on to, to love.

  “That’s why I’ve arranged a meeting,” Doug said, pulling out papers from his briefcase.

  “A meeting?”

  “With the lawyers for the state. They’re moving as fast as they can. And they want to talk to you.”

  I didn’t know what he was getting at. He saw my confusion and nodded.

  “These aren’t the lawyers who will eventually be prosecuting you, Nikki. They’re prosecuting Mr. Pavon. What you told the police was helpful in arresting him, but they feel you might have more information. They’d like to know what it is because they think your story might truly convince a jury of his guilt. Put him behind bars forever. Talking to them could . . .” He cleared his throat, wiped his hands on the table in front of him. “It could dramatically affect your own sentencing, Nikki, if you gave them a full, truthful testimony. As of now, you’re still going to be tried for your part in this murder, no matter what you tell them. You’ve got to remember that. What you’ve told the police so far doesn’t make anything look good for you in that case. But you could make it look a lot worse for him. And, in the long run, that might help you.”

  I was shocked. How did they know there was more to say? And how could I tell them everything anyway? The idea of discussing that Saturday again—with anyone—brought the sound of gunshots back. Dee’s crazy laugh. His pride and gratitude. His hands all over me. I’d managed not think about him much, not after a while. And now he was here. Here, and filling up the room. Needing my loyalty more than ever.

  “Will you talk with them? Hear what they have to say? As your lawyer”—Doug smiled in a sad way—“I would definitely advise it.”

  I didn’t want to. Wasn’t going to. Not just for Dee’s sake, but because things had been so nice lately. Not nice, exactly, but . . . easier. Dee’s fury felt put away for a while. All of it did. I didn’t want it—or anything about him—to come any closer. Not in here. Not when I was trying to be normal. When I’d just started thinking about Bird and how to get her to forgive me.

  But Doug’s face said I didn’t have much choice in the matter. So after a minute of thinking—not thinking—I told him I guessed I would.

  “Okay, good,” he said. “Because they’re here.”

  RIGHT AWAY I DIDN’T LIKE HER. THE STATE PROSECUTOR against Dee. She was tall. Too tall. Shoulders like a football player, stuffed into that burgundy suit. Long-fingered hands, with no polish on the nails. Skin the color of parchment paper and hair in a million tiny dreads, pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck. Dark freckles clustered in two crescents under her eyes, like war paint.

  Her giant hand dwarfed mine. She had a grip like a construction worker.

  “Miss Dougherty, I’m Marjorie Hampton. Have a seat, will you?”

  I took the chair she indicated, across from everyone: her, Doug, and a younger woman, also in a suit. Though they hadn’t bothered me while I was talking to Doug before, I suddenly hated the fluorescent lights in here, the standard-issue office table. Everything felt darker now, full of more judgment.

  The younger woman reached across the table to shake my hand, introducing herself as Bianca Pousner. When I glanced at her face, she gave me a small smile, told me to sit down. Nicely. More like asked. I thought she was my age, maybe, but then of course she couldn’t be because she was a lawyer and not a dropout.

  “Are you comfortable?” she asked.

  The main prosecutor cut over her: “You can call me whatever you’re comfortable with. This is Bianca, if you like.”

  She was trying to smile like this was a favor she was doing.

  “What would you like for us to call you?” Bianca said.

  “Nikki.” My voice was a small noise.

  “All right, Nikki,” Marjorie said. Though I felt better thinking of her as Hampton. “You do understand the charges against you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I watched her long, naked fingers spread out the papers in front of her.

  “Good. And I hope you’ve been adjusting all
right?”

  “I guess so, ma’am.”

  “Splendid.” But she didn’t sound so. “Well, as Mr. Jacobsen may have explained, we are part of the team involved in prosecuting Denarius Pavon in the alleged murder of Deputy Palmer. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Even the sound of Dee’s name brought flashes in me.

  “And, since you yourself were an alleged participant, we have some questions for you about what happened on August twenty-fourth, as well as events on the day leading up to it. And after.”

  I could feel her eyes on me. Feel them even though I couldn’t see her through the curtain of other things I was seeing. Him. Me. The yellow house.

  “It’s important that I let you know that cooperation in this case against Mr. Pavon could possibly have an effect on your own sentencing if the judge decides to be lenient with you. But I want to be clear that I am not here to offer you any kind of deal.”

  Then I could look at her. Briefly.

  “That will remain solely up to the judge who hears your case. Right now, we’re here to see if you’re willing to answer some questions. Because there are some gaps in the information we have that I think you could be of help with.”

  When I looked at Doug, he was nodding for the prosecutor to go on.

  She held up a paper filled with cop’s handwriting. What I’d told them the day they arrested me.

  “I understand that this is your statement to the police about the events on August twenty-fourth. Is that correct?”

  I couldn’t remember anymore what it said on that paper. But her tone of voice, and Doug’s hopeful posture gave me no choice. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you know, as well as I do, that this statement clearly implicates you in the murder of Deputy Palmer and is also full of gaps?”

  Her face seemed carved of concrete. Hard. Disapproving. Full of distrust. She hated me. She hated what I had done, and she wasn’t hiding it.

  “That’s my statement,” I managed to say.

  She cleared her throat and shifted in her chair.

  Then Bianca took over, leaning toward me in a friendly way. “The thing is, Nikki, we’ve reviewed all the evidence that’s come in so far. But if there’s anything you think is missing . . . anything you need to add or want us to know, now’s the time. To be honest, we need to know as much as possible.”

  I stared down at my hands. Without thinking, I had been picking at a chipped edge of my old nail polish. I wasn’t really aware of doing it even as I watched myself.

  “We need to know—what we’re asking you—is if there’s more detail you can remember.”

  I chipped more and more away from my nail. Bird had done them for me before any of this happened. Hampton shifted in her chair and let out a long breath. Almost like she was about to say something.

  “For example,” Bianca pressed, “you say that on the morning of the twenty-fourth, you and the accused, Denarius Pavon, were staying at your friend’s house. Your friend, let’s see . . .”

  “Bird didn’t have anything to do with any of this,” I blurted. “You have to believe me that she didn’t know anything. No one needs to question her any more.”

  I could feel Bianca watching me. But I didn’t want to see her face. I was remembering Dee. And me. The sweaty smell of the futon. His telephone on the floor, chiming, Dooooom. Dooooooom. Doooom. Bird with her mouth full of pins, concentrating on Kenyetta’s dress. Knowing nothing. Trusting me.

  “Nikki—” Hampton’s voice showed she was already tired of me. “What Bianca is trying to say is that we know you’ve lied already to the police, on more than one occasion, and we know there are reasons why you might continue to lie to us now. Or, at least, withhold information.”

  I couldn’t say anything to that. I didn’t know if I had to, really. I’d told them basically what had happened. I was already here in jail. From what Doug was telling me, I was going to get punished no matter what I did or said anyway. They had Dee too. They had my whole life. I was here for a murder I still didn’t really think I’d committed. And now they wanted me to tell them more? To make sure the man I’d loved—even if he didn’t care anymore—would rot in prison forever? Did they really think that little of me?

  Bianca leaned over and whispered something then to Hampton, who flicked her eyes at me and nodded.

  “Nikki, are you aware”—Hampton straightened up—“that Mr. Pavon had a two-year relationship with the victim’s daughter, Nicole Palmer? And that as recently as the day he was arrested, he was calling her?”

  I flushed. Two years? The tattooed N swam before my eyes.

  “That’s impossible. We started dating in October. And he didn’t—”

  But it was like she didn’t hear me or care what I had to say. “Did you also know that on May twelfth of this year, a restraining order was filed against Mr. Pavon? By Deputy Palmer? To keep him from seeing Nicole?”

  May. My breathing stopped. Dizzy swirls crossed my vision. Dee had texted me right around Memorial Day weekend. Appearing from nowhere, after we’d been broken up for months. Bird and I had taken Jamelee out to Stone Mountain and I’d left my phone at home. When we got back, I found that message. Saying he’d been missing me. Wanting to know how I was and could I go see a movie or something. The end of May.

  “Detectives confiscated the Palmer family computer, and they found e-mails between Mr. Pavon and Miss Palmer as recent as the month before the murder. Even though we haven’t gone through everything yet, I can tell you the basic nature of them is certainly . . . romantic.”

  Her slimy tone slipped between the cracks of me. The month before the murder. July. Dee’d taken me to watch fireworks at Lenox Mall. He’d poured wine coolers into Gatorade bottles before we left Bird’s to make sure we wouldn’t get caught drinking in the parking lot. We’d made out on a blanket, not caring about families sitting five feet from us. He’d driven me back—late—and I’d wanted him to stay over. But he was tired, he said. Had to work out in the morning. And then I didn’t hear from him for a week.

  “I’ll also tell you,” Hampton went on, shifting gears but keeping her voice pointed, “that there are witnesses. More than one of them reported seeing two people in the vehicle at the scene of the crime. A man and a woman. Neighbors also described a purple Mustang, with a distinctive symbol on the back. The one we now know belongs to your friend—”

  “Bird.” Her name was lead in my mouth.

  But it was like she didn’t hear me. “There were also gun casings at the scene of the crime. Over a dozen of them. From two guns: one nine millimeter and another from a forty-five. Police found a nine millimeter registered under Mr. Pavon’s name when they searched his house. The other weapon has yet to be found.”

  I could see the gun like it was in my hand this minute. Wiping it off with the edge of my shirt. I knew they were trying to scare me, making me think they could imply that I was the one who actually fired it. And for a minute or two, I felt like I had.

  But Hampton kept going. “Ms. Dougherty, we know by his phone records that Mr. Pavon and Nicole Palmer had lengthy phone calls on August ninth, twelfth, and fourteenth. That he called her on the day he was arrested. We know, from those same phone records and your own admission, that you and Mr. Pavon were also actively involved at the time. You called him often. You told the police he stayed at Ms. Brown’s home with you. It’s clear that you also had a romantic relationship.”

  I didn’t want any more of this. Not her questions, not the memories, and, most of all, not the falling, sinking feeling that was starting to swallow me down. My hands were shaking. All of me was shaking. Because I was starting to understand the real reason why he’d done this. Done it because he thought it meant he would be with her. Used me to help just because he knew I’d do anything he said. And no amount of anything was going to make it an easier truth to swallow.

  I covered up my face.

  The prosecutor’s voice was kinder this time: “I und
erstand that this is probably upsetting to you, Nikki, but it would help me to at least know whether you had any knowledge of Mr. Pavon’s relationship with Ms. Palmer and if there was anything he said or did—either before that day or during it—that might help us?”

  She don’t have nothing to do with us.

  I didn’t say it out loud, but it was all I could think. She didn’t have nothing to do with us, but she had everything.

  Restraining order. E-mails as recent as July. Phoning her up until the day he got arrested. And it was her Daddy who was dead. Killed by Dee to get him out of the way so that the two of them could be together. You’ll be my wife.

  I started to cry. I couldn’t help it.

  I cried so hard I couldn’t talk.

  THEY HAD TO END THE MEETING. I WAS CRYING SO MUCH I made myself throw up, and everyone cleared out of the office. Outside, in the hall, Hampton and Bianca told me they knew this was difficult, but their faces didn’t seem that way. They shook hands with Doug and said they’d make another appointment if I was willing to talk to them more. After they left, Doug tried to soothe me a little, saying he knew that it was hard, but that this would be really important for a lot of reasons. His hand patted between my shoulder blades a few times. I’d stopped crying, but I’d stopped talking, too. I was too exhausted. I needed everything to disappear. Especially myself.

  “I’ll give you time to think about it,” he told me. “Just call me when you’ve considered what you want to do. You can take as long as you need.”

  I nodded, I guess. Said something. Next thing, a guard was there unlocking things, taking me back to the common room. I felt like I could hardly lift my feet, following her. And I didn’t want to see anyone.