Criminal

by Terra Elan McVoy

  But even if it had been her idea, thinking you want somebody dead is a whole lot different from dealing with them actually being so. I’d heard enough girls talk in here to know that was true. Living without her daddy, no matter what she thought of him, was going to be punishment enough. Awful as Cherry was, bad as I wanted not to see her anymore, I didn’t want her in the ground. Nicole would have to deal with her father’s death, his absence, for the rest of her life. No matter whatever else she felt. And, in my opinion, that was enough.

  Dee, on the other hand. He still wanted her. I knew it. He did what he did thinking it would end with him and Nicole running off together, getting married, whatever. My helping the prosecutors get every detail down, it wasn’t about her anymore. It was about teaching him a lesson. And it felt good, telling this woman who couldn’t promise me any kind of deal, “I’ll do whatever you need.”

  A COUPLE DAYS LATER I WAS GIVEN SPECIAL RELEASE TO go out to the site with Detective DuPree, the same guy who’d questioned me back in August. The one who showed up on Bird’s front stoop with that search warrant. I’d forgotten he was big. Like a kid’s drawing of a fat person: round from shoulders to waist, with skinny stick legs. But also—and I hadn’t noticed this before—he was handsome. Smooth skin. Nice smile.

  “I just need you to walk me through it,” he said as we drove. I hadn’t been in a car in a long time. Not one where I was allowed in the front seat. It was strange and fast—everything rushing toward us. “There are some things that don’t quite line up. I’m sure, though, once you show me, it’ll all become clear.”

  Doug had tried to insist on coming with me, but at that point I knew he couldn’t protect me anymore. I wanted to do this on my own, for my own reasons. At first, in the car with DuPree, I wondered if that had been a bad idea, not bringing Doug along. But it didn’t take long for that feeling to come over me again—that feeling like DuPree and I were just talking. Over a cup of coffee. Even if there was a laptop magically rigged into the dashboard between me and him, and a staticky radio squawking from time to time.

  We were driving from a different direction Dee and I had taken out there, so at first it was just a regular drive. A regular drive with a detective who needed help with investigating a murder I helped commit. It started feeling a lot less regular once we got off the interstate, though. Things started coming back to me. We turned onto roads I’d forgotten I knew. Blocks away, I guessed exactly when the brick sign for the subdivision was going to come up. I expected that cursive sign long before I saw it.

  I started to sweat. Not beads and beads—more like a thin curtain over me.

  “So, you came in through this entrance, right?” Detective DuPree asked.

  I nodded.

  He drove slowly up the hill. Turned. The houses we passed—full of neighbors. Neighbors I knew now had picked up their phones, dialed 911 when they heard the shots that day. Had looked out their windows. Seen Dee. And me. A panicky feeling rose up in me, wondering were they looking out those windows now, watching again. Would they recognize me? Come out of their houses, demanding that I pay for what had happened?

  “You okay?” DuPree asked, kind.

  I wiped my hands against my thighs and nodded. They’d given me sweatpants and a sweatshirt to wear out here, thinking my orange getup might raise alarm. I tried to concentrate on how much better the fuzzy fabric felt than my jail uniform.

  I counted down the houses as we drew closer: four . . . three . . . two . . . one. It shouldn’t have surprised me, I guess, that I would know the place before I saw it again. When I thought about August twenty-fourth, I saw Dee more than anything else. Now I was seeing the whole picture, in razor-sharp vision. The cracks in the driveway next door. The manhole cover in the middle of the road. The border of monkey grass in the yard across the street. And the house—that yellow house—with everything exactly the same, save that the plants were all gone and there was a FOR SALE sign next to the mailbox.

  “She’s not here?” I asked before thinking.

  “Who? Miss Palmer?”

  I kept staring at the house, picturing the rooms empty now. I wondered when she was here last. If she’d ever come back.

  “Moved up north to be with her aunt.”

  “Indiana.” I remembered the newscast with unreal clarity. The one we watched at Bird’s, the day after it happened. I saw DuPree try to cover up being surprised I knew.

  “Shame, really,” he said. “Leaving town your senior year. And your daddy not there for your graduation.”

  I had to shut my eyes then. Hampton had shown me a picture of Deputy Palmer and his daughter, from when she was a little girl. The way they were both smiling, the way he had his arm around her, I knew he would’ve been so proud at her graduation. Even if she hated him. Even if she thought she wanted him dead. He would’ve worn a tie to the ceremony and shouted her name when she took her diploma even if there were too many people in the auditorium for her to hear. He would’ve put his arm around her like that again and taken her out dinner after. Somewhere fancy. He would’ve bought her dessert.

  “You going to be able to do this?”

  I opened my eyes again, forced myself to look at the house.

  “What do you need me to tell you?” I said as I opened the door to get out.

  I SHOWED HIM WHERE WE PARKED BIRD’S CAR, A LITTLE beyond the edge of the driveway. I told him again about the wigs, the clothes, about Dee making me put on that flannel shirt.

  “That makes sense, then,” DuPree said thoughtfully.

  I asked him what.

  “Two witnesses said they were sure a man was in the driver’s seat. Which was why he asked you to bring that short wig you had. Wear that shirt.”

  The disguises had always felt so wrong, but something extra curled up cold in me, knowing Dee had wanted to disguise me too. Trying to confuse witnesses just that much. I shuddered.

  DuPree didn’t seem to notice. He asked me if I saw any shooting, and I had to tell him no, that I’d been too freaked out.

  “I could hear it, though,” I said, breath shuddery. DuPree and I were standing at the end of the Palmers’ driveway. Six feet away from where Mr. Palmer had died. Maybe exactly in the spot where Dee had emptied out his guns.

  “How many shots again?” DuPree had a little notepad out. He licked the end of his pencil like they do in old detective shows.

  I imagined it, the bullets just coming and coming at Deputy Palmer. Glass bursting as they pierced through the windshield. Slamming into his body. Shot after shot. So many he couldn’t move, couldn’t duck down, couldn’t get away. Could only raise one hand in a useless attempt to ward them off. Recognizing the hate-filled face of the boy he knew all along was bad for his daughter. And being able to only sit there, seat belt still on, and bleed.

  “I’m not sure. Thirteen? Fifteen?” Tears had come to my eyes and I pushed them away with my fingertips. “It was a lot. And they came fast. I was driving away by then.”

  We walked down the street around the curve and went through the intersection, turned left. I showed him where I’d stopped the car, in time to see Dee running toward me between the houses.

  “That lines up,” DuPree said almost to himself. Then, to me, “Lady in that house over there was one of the ones who described the purple car.”

  I looked. It was a tan-colored house, the bottom half of it made up of those expensive-looking rocks. I was surprised she’d seen the car at all, because it was four or five houses away from where I’d picked up Dee and there were a lot of trees. She must’ve been standing right in front of the window when I drove by.

  “He ran through here.” I pointed.

  DuPree nodded again, mentioned someone who saw a red-haired woman. But I wasn’t focused on anything he was saying. Instead I stared down the corridor of grass between the two stately houses, looking straight into the driveway where Deputy Palmer had died. Had he still been alive when Dee took off? Had he watched Dee run, that wig flying behind him? Wa
s there enough consciousness in him left, enough clarity, to see me there too? Struggling to take his last breaths, full of blood and pain, and me—right there—waiting to take Dee to safety?

  It was too much. I dropped down to the curb and pressed my knees against my closed eyes. Tears soaked into the fabric of my sweatpants.

  DuPree was nice about it. He just stood there while I cried. Waited. Didn’t rush me. Probably he’d seen this kind of thing happen before. People finally getting hold of exactly what they’d done. Seeing what they’d seen in their own heads so many times, only this time, finally from the victim’s side of it.

  “There’s nothing I can do to make it right,” I said, trying to breathe normal again. “This man’s dead. His daughter has nobody, and I—”

  “You’re doing what you can,” DuPree said over me, quiet. “You’re finally doing, now, what you didn’t have the strength to do then.”

  AS SOON AS I GOT BACK FROM THE SITE WITH DUPREE, I called Hampton. She’d said she wanted to know everything. Needed every scrap of anything that she could use against Dee. And whether it was out of remorse or guilt or anger, just plain tiredness, or revenge, I knew I had to tell her right away, before I lost my nerve.

  “Hello, Nikki?”

  “Hampton.” I was breathing shallow, and my cheeks felt warm.

  “Yes?”

  “Afterward, he was laughing like a little kid. He was so excited, like he’d just won the lottery. It was what made me calm down, actually, how happy he was. Like we’d just done something good. I believed him. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You’ll want to say all this with Doug present if this is a new addition to your testimony.”

  “And that’s not all.” This next part was going to destroy me, I knew. It would be terrible for my case, and Doug would kill me. But I had to do it. I had to tell the whole truth. “On the way home we pulled over at a rest stop and we screwed each other’s brains out.”

  MORE WAITING. DAYS AND WEEKS OF THE ENDLESS SAME thing. Wake up, cleanup, breakfast. Mopping. Common room and doing hair. Lunch. More mopping. Outside walk with Priscilla. Cards in the afternoon. Reading time. Dinner. Mopping again. Priscilla and Cam going to their meetings. TV with everyone. Common room cleanup, count, lights-out, bed.

  I wasn’t hiding anymore. I’d done what I’d done. Whatever punishment came from that, I knew I deserved. Deserved because of my weak-kneed blindness, my choosing Dee over everything else. So I’d told the prosecutors everything without thinking twice. And though I was ashamed, when everything was finished, I felt cleaner than I had all year.

  Priscilla got to get clean too, finally. In her own way. For days I watched her haul herself out of bed when the guards called for her earlier than regular wake-up time. She’d be gone all day at her trial. Me and Rae walked the fence outside together, talking, trying not to think of Priscilla. Cam shot hoops with the other girls. She’d gotten really good, and everyone wanted to play with her. Afterward we played cards, the three of us, sometimes with an extra girl coming into the game, filling the hole of Priscilla being gone. It wouldn’t be until we were getting ready to head into dinner that she came back, not saying much.

  Five days later, she was gone. The jury only discussed it for an hour. That prior DWI was apparently all they needed to convince themselves she was guilty and would likely do it again. Twelve years in prison. Fines. Community service, after.

  We hardly got to say good-bye. She was only in our block about ten hours between her sentencing and getting transferred over to the prison, and half of that was count and lights-out. They came to get her at two a.m. I got to hug her and tell her I’d write, that I knew she would be okay, but it didn’t feel like enough. Through the dark I watched her shuffle away, half the person she’d been when I got here.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if that was going to happen to me.

  FINALLY WE WERE PREPARING FOR DEE’S TRIAL. IT WAS March now. Everyone told me this was quick for getting into court. It meant the case was extra important.

  For a week leading up to it, Hampton and her assistant visited every day. Asking me questions, showing me my statements, going over details again and again, making sure everything was correct. Bianca worked with me for hours on just trying to maintain eye contact with her while I gave my answers. Telling me to sit up straight, showing me how to speak toward the microphone but not too close. Hampton pretended to be Dee’s lawyer, firing cross-examination questions that made me squirm. Getting mad when I did.

  “He’s going to ask you worse,” she assured me with that unforgiving face of hers. “You’re going to have to answer back strong. Stick to the story. Don’t elaborate and don’t get defensive. For God’s sake don’t mumble, and don’t let anyone see that you’re afraid of him. It’s his job to make you look bad in front of the jurors. You’re going to have to be stronger than this.”

  On our last day, Hampton told me they weren’t going to let me change into street clothes when I appeared on the witness stand. I was going to have to get up there in front of everyone—including Dee—in my jail uniform.

  “But I’m going to look like a criminal!” I wailed.

  “You are a criminal, Nikki,” Hampton growled. “At least in these jurors’ eyes. You lied to the police to protect your boyfriend, you were an essential part of his scheme, and you did nothing to obstruct his plan. For over a week, you tried to help him cover it up. They are going. To think. You are. A killer. What I need you to stay focused on, what I need you to remember, is that he was the one who pulled the trigger. He was the one who planned this whole thing, down to the last detail. He brought you into this, and he was the one who wanted Deputy Palmer dead. This isn’t your trial right now. What we’re doing here, what is so vitally important, is working to prove beyond a reasonable doubt”—she had said this so many times, I was so tired of it—“that Denarius Pavon was the mastermind and executor of this plan, that he manipulated your feelings for him to get you to help, and he conducted it with motive and without remorse. If you can’t be on board with that, you might as well not show up tomorrow.”

  I was glaring at her. Everyone told me the lawyers were supposed to be nice to you, were supposed to make you feel at ease. But Hampton could still barely stand to show me any kindness, with her brusque man voice, her unrelenting pressure.

  At the same time, her strictness made me feel the way I’d felt when Priscilla’s hand went over my mouth that dark night in our cell. Telling me to get something to do and quick. Something more than obsessing over my boyfriend, anyway. They both expected me to pull it together, not caring how I did it. Not praising me for it or questioning my ability. All they did was point out that I had to. Which helped me, somehow, understand that I could.

  Though it was exhausting and uncomfortable—though I was so nervous, and Hampton so tough—working on this testimony was much more than just something to do, anyway. It was something to do that, if it made Dee pay for what he’d done, was going to actually be worth doing.

  BUT NOTHING MARJORIE DID IN THOSE FEW DAYS BEFORE trial could really prepare me for what it was like. Early in the morning the guards got me up. Searched me, cuffed me, took me to the courthouse, and I had to wait in a holding cell there for what felt like forever. It was worse than waiting in jail, worse than those long hours in lockdown. I tried to do what Bianca told me, to go over the questions and think about the honest answers to them, to take long slow breaths and count them to a hundred if I had to, but it was hard to focus. I hadn’t seen him in so long. It had been easy—easier, anyway—to quit Dee when I was completely cut off from him. When I was surrounded by jail life, by my friends. When I had no other choice. Now I wondered if it would be like it always was with Cherry. And Bo. And Gary. And everyone else. It didn’t matter how long they’d been in rehab or how many times. All it took was one sniff, one hit, one inhale, one swallow, and they were right back where they started: helpless. Hooked.

  When the deputy finally came for m
e, I cleared my throat and breathed as calmly as I could. I tried not to be afraid. All you have to do, Hampton had said, is get up there and tell the truth.

  The whole truth.

  And nothing else.

  WHEN THE DEPUTY SWUNG THE COURTROOM DOOR OPEN, the first thing that hit me was how many people were in there. Bianca had told me they’d be there, but it was still uncomfortable, walking past. I kept my eyes on Hampton and Bianca up front, hands folded before them, waiting for me to get to my seat.

  As I walked to the stand, next all I could see were the faces of the jury. You wouldn’t think twelve people could look like so many. All of them watching me. Judging, but trying to keep their expressions even. Hampton had told me if I looked at any of them, I’d have to make eye contact. To be relaxed. Confident, but not cocky. Respectful, but not cowed. I didn’t know, at that moment, how to be any of those things. How to be anything other than what I truthfully was: afraid, ashamed, defeated, resigned.

  The deputy stood in front of me and asked me to raise my right hand. Whole truth, nothing but, etc. The judge told me I could have a seat, and the deputy stepped away.

  And then, there he was.

  In a suit. Blue, with a pale blue shirt and a blue-and-green-striped tie. I guessed because it was his trial, they’d let him get dressed up. And he did. His gold watch was gleaming. Cuffs pulled down neat, to cover as many of the tattoos on his wrists and hands as he could. Hair freshly cut—sharp and tight. Though I couldn’t smell it, I knew he was wearing cologne, and I knew it was Drakkar Noir. I’d sprayed my pillows with it once, hoping the smell of him would follow me into my dreams. That I would wake up, my nose buried in that smell as though still buried in his warm neck. I thought this, but I couldn’t feel it as I looked at him. He was shaved. Clean. Skin almost radiant with freshness, though I usually liked him a couple days unshaven. Still, he seemed so loose. Even though he was sitting straight, hands folded in front of him on the table, his whole body seemed to say he had nothing to worry about. Like this was an interview for a job he knew he’d get. Easy. Confident. Not a worry in the world.