She took her hand off Valerie’s shoulder and went to a podium, placing her notes on it and crossing her arms. “And do you know what? The state can’t just spin a good story. They have to prove that Valerie Solara was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.” She intoned again, “Beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Maggie looked at the state’s table for an uncomfortable, quiet second, then back at the jury. “But how are they going to do that? They told you you’d hear from Mr. Miller about some…what did they call it? A seduction. They told you you’d hear from other witnesses. But isn’t it interesting that they are accusing Valerie Solara of planting poison in her friend’s food…and yet they didn’t tell you that you would hear any evidence of Ms. Solara buying the medication. You know why?”
The jury waited for the answer.
“Because there isn’t any evidence of her acquiring it. None. They couldn’t find any link between Valerie and the drug that killed Mrs. Miller. That’s interesting, don’t you think?” She huffed out loud, as if expelling disbelief.
“And they want to talk about friendship? Well, let’s talk about it.” She put a blown-up photo of three women on the easel.
“These women met fifteen years ago at a gym here in the city. Amanda Miller was newly married to her first husband. Valerie was a single mom. Her daughter, Layla, who is nineteen now, was just four. And Bridget was a surgical nurse. Usually, Amanda was busy with charitable events, Valerie was busy being a mom and Bridget was always working. Usually, they wouldn’t have had time to make new friends. But on that one day, they all had time for one reason or another. After they met at a gym, they went to a restaurant nearby to talk. It was a Tuesday. And for nearly every other Tuesday after that, up until the time Amanda Miller died, these women met to share their lives. They were immediate friends. They were like sisters. There was no one who supported Amanda more than Valerie and Bridget and vice versa. That continued to the day she died.
“You will hear from witness after witness who will tell you how close these women were. You will hear Amanda’s husband, Xavier, tell you that himself. He will tell you that he never would have suspected Valerie Solara of wanting to kill her friend. Her best friend. Their other best friend Bridget will tell you the same thing. They will all tell you that Valerie wasn’t like that. She wasn’t jealous, she wasn’t violent, she couldn’t hurt anyone. You will hear this over and over. Because it’s true.”
Maggie picked up her notes and reviewed them. She explained that Valerie Solara didn’t have to put on any evidence herself. She didn’t have to prove anything at all.
Maggie stopped, dead center of the jury. “A woman died. By all accounts, a lovely woman, a good mom. When someone like that dies, we all want someone to pay for it. But the right person must pay for it. We cannot allow them—” she turned and pointed at the state’s attorneys “—to rush to judgment and pile up inconsequential tidbits to make it appear they have the person who committed this when they do not. That’s not how the American criminal justice system works. You are the upholders of that system. Your job is large. Your responsibility is massive.” She looked up and down the row of jurors. “Do it,” she said. “Do your job.”
18
A mother’s words can soothe. But just as easily they can sting.
Recently, I had been hearing my mother’s words about my father, about how I owed him respect, how I should make “some attempt” to give him that. They had hurt at first, but then the sting wore off. Yet they kept winding through my head, then into my heart, creating a slow-building guilt that, once it had taken hold, could not be released without me doing what she wanted me to. What I needed to do, I suppose.
And although I still hadn’t spoken to him, Sam’s offer to cancel his wedding—his ultimatum, if I was honest—was reverberating through me. I needed my dad’s cold, unflinching analysis.
As soon as court was over for the day, I called my father.
He answered on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting all day or maybe all month, for this call. I told him that I wanted to see him. I thought about asking him to have dinner, but none of my usual places, the ones where I might step out on a Friday, seemed right. Twin Anchors, Marge’s, Benchmark—they all seemed too casual, places to meet a friend.
“Can I stop by your place?” I asked.
There was no pause before he said yes.
My father lived in a nondescript midrise building on Clark Street, just south of North Avenue. Although I’d known the location of his building, it wasn’t until I pushed through the revolving glass doors that I realized that it was nearly equidistant between my mother’s house and my own. Did that mean something? As always with my father, I had no idea.
Likewise, I didn’t know what to expect from my father’s apartment, but I sensed it would be worldly and interesting, something like my father himself or the person I thought he was.
But when I got there, I saw the apartment was a place for someone transient, a place where no one would live for long.
The gun-metal-gray couch was dark enough to hide any stains and looked like the type rented from one of the furniture places on Milwaukee Avenue. To the left was a reading chair that had once, maybe, been interesting. But now the wood arms were nicked and scarred, the formerly ivory paint across the top yellowed. My guess was that it was the fruits of Dumpster-diving or a visit to a secondhand store. A squat old table, too low, sat in front of the couch and chair.
The living room held little else but a small desk in the corner, which faced the wall. If the apartment had been mine, I would have put the desk near the window, in order to look outside and get a glimpse of the world. But my father was different from me. Maybe he didn’t need to see anything at all.
We stood at the threshold of the room, my father quiet, letting me study it. I looked at him then. It still startled me to see him, a handsome man in his late fifties, instead of the younger version of him, forever memorialized in my brain. His wavy hair was now salt-and-pepper-gray instead of chestnut-brown like Charlie’s. He was still trim, but he was more refined than when he was younger. After living in Italy, he dressed like an Italian—slim-cut linen trousers, an expensive white shirt, open at the collar, a beautiful gold watch. His eyes were still the same green, still intensely focused through the copper glasses he’d always worn. But there was rarely life in those eyes.
He gestured to the couch. “Have a seat.”
I sat. The couch was stiff. I shifted back and forth, trying to get comfortable. I now faced the open kitchen, which held nothing on the counters save an espresso machine.
My father followed my eyes and gestured at it. “Can I make you some espresso?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I drink tea.”
“That’s right. Green tea.”
I couldn’t remember if I’d ever told him that or if it was one of the things he’d learned from watching me. I was just coming to understand how much he’d observed me, on and off, for most of my life.
“Mom told me she used to see you sometimes,” I said.
If he was surprised by the shift in topic, he didn’t show it. He said nothing.
“That must have been intentional,” I said.
“It was. But it was also a failure, a weakness.”
Now neither of us said anything.
“I’d give you a tour—” he gave a little polite laugh that sounded unlike him “—but it’s just this room and the bedroom.” He gestured toward a short hallway.
“That’s okay.”
The apartment made me profoundly sad. My father had lived an incredible life—incredibly tragic, incredibly exciting. This empty shell of an apartment didn’t fit him.
He seemed to sense my thoughts. “I’m just here until I decide…”
I nodded. I understood what he was saying—until he decided what to do with himself.
“Let me get you some water.”
I watched him go into his kitchen and open and close cabinet doors as if unsure where
the glasses were. Or if he even owned them.
Finally, he found one made of orange plastic. “This is all I have,” he said over his shoulder in an embarrassed tone.
“Anything is fine.”
I heard him opening some drawers. When he came back with the water, he put it on the table, then placed two other items there.
I looked closer. My old cell phone and my old ID.
“Those were in the building. The one we were in with Aunt Elena.” The one that exploded.
There had been an explosion in Chicago earlier that summer, and my Aunt Elena, my dad’s sister, had been one of the last people in the building that was blown to smithereens. Long story. Really long story. My dad had told me he got word that she was uninjured and in Italy. The body found after the explosion was male, likely either Dez Romano, the boss of Michael DeSanto, or the guy who worked for him. Dez was a gangster I’d gotten mixed up with thanks to a gig from John Mayburn. Dez had once made it clear he’d wanted to kill me, and so although I’d never wanted anyone dead before, there was a part of me that hoped that he was enjoying himself in gangster heaven. But it was more than likely that the body was that of Dez’s lackey. I tried not to think about the fact that Dez could still be out there.
My father’s head bobbed in a single nod toward the items on the table. “I retrieved them before we got out.”
“You’re just giving them to me now?” I made an irritated sound. “Do you know what a pain in the ass it was to spend half a day at the DMV and the other half at the cell phone store?”
Without pausing, without expression, he said, “Do you know what a pain in the ass it would have been if the police learned you were there that day and confiscated them as evidence? Or if they had tracked a call from your phone and then you’d used it again?”
“That’s why you told me to get a new phone number.”
He nodded.
I looked at the phone and ID. So he’d been protecting me. “Thanks.”
Again, he said nothing.
I put the cell phone and ID in my purse. “So…” I looked around. “It must be strange to be so out in the open now. I mean, since you were almost—” what was the word? “—invisible before. Mostly.”
I regretted it as soon as I saw the strange expression on his face.
“I don’t mean that in any critical kind of way,” I said quickly. “I guess I was just thinking about it because Mom and I were talking and…” I shrugged. “I’m just wondering how you’re doing.”
My father looked around his new apartment, then back at me. “I still feel invisible.”
I felt the weight of his words, and it nearly flattened me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m used to either blending into the background or starting over. But this is different. This feeling I have, it’s more about Chicago.”
I scrunched my face in confusion.
“Chicago is one of those towns,” he said. “One where you need to know people. More than any town I’ve ever seen, even in Italy. You Chicagoans are part of your city. Either you have family here or your friends become your family, and you all seem to move forward together.”
The statement was left unsaid—and I have neither friends nor family.
“Do you know the best thing about Chicago?” I asked.
He shook his head no, looked hungry for my response.
“The best thing is that people want more friends and more family. They want to grow. They want the city to grow. They’re not trying to keep people out.”
My father frowned. “I don’t know if that’s true.”
“It is. For the most part. People want to know interesting people. They want others to be a part of their web. It’s not exclusive.”
He crossed his arms. “So what would I do to join a web?”
Was he asking me personally because he wanted to know my world and Charlie’s? Or was he just looking for advice about making it in the city? The answer to either, I figured, was the same. “It’s up to you to stick your foot out and stop a couple of people from walking by.”
“My whole life, I have tried very, very hard to blend. I kept myself closed off.”
I saw how uncomfortable his admission made him and I knew then we were talking about more than the move to Chicago.
I nodded. “I know. But other people have done that, too. Maybe not in the way you have, but they’ve closed themselves off just the same. And they’ve gotten past it. Maybe this is your challenge now. I’m sure it’s one you can handle.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“Oh, I’ve got tons of this stuff. I just need to apply it to myself now.”
I thought about asking him about Sam, but now that I knew my father was having his own struggles, it seemed somehow wrong.
He smiled with one corner of his mouth then. “I think you’re doing fine, Izzy.”
I shifted on the stiff couch while my father just sat there, looking contemplative and sad. I wished I could help him become less invisible.
And then I had an idea.
I reached for my bag and took out the notes that Detective Vaughn had made in Valerie’s case. “I have to cross-examine a detective on Monday. I’m helping Maggie on a murder trial…” My words died off when I saw recognition in his face. “You already know all of this.”
He gave a slight bow of his head.
“How do you know this? I didn’t even know I was trying this case until yesterday.”
He didn’t look sheepish or embarrassed. He said nothing.
I felt a flicker of anger. I thought about telling him that I no longer needed him to follow me around, to see if I was okay. I thought about telling him that he should be a normal person. But the anger fizzed when I realized he was looking after me in the only way he knew how. And really, when I thought about it, was it so bad to have someone looking over my shoulder?
When I was younger, zipping through the city on my Vespa, never bothering with a helmet, I felt I hadn’t needed protection. When I was in a relationship with Sam, I hadn’t felt any desire for that, either. But when I learned Sam was going strong with Alyssa, I had suddenly liked the idea of someone else keeping an eye on me.
Thinking of Sam, I lifted my current cell phone from my purse and glanced at it. Still nothing. A flash of annoyance lit up my brain. How could he walk back into my life and then not call or text me? It was true I’d walked out on him, but still…
My dad cleared his throat. I looked at him, at his woeful expression, and the urge to help him feel less invisible returned. “Would you review these records for me?” I held out the Chicago Police Department notes for the Amanda Miller murder. “They’re written by the detective I’m crossing on Monday.”
“Of course.” His expression turned hopeful. “What do you want me to look for?”
“Anything, basically. Any inconsistencies, anything lacking.”
“Of course.”
I handed him the records. “Thanks. I guess I can leave those with you, and I’ll get another copy from Maggie.”
He looked momentarily confused. “I just need a few minutes.”
“What do you mean? You only need a few minutes to analyze the records of a Chicago homicide detective?”
“Probably less than that.” His face was flat. He wasn’t trying to be funny or impressive.
“Oh. Okay.” I stood. “Can I use your restroom while you look those over?”
He nodded, waved at the hallway.
In the bathroom, I ran the water, wanting some kind of buffer in the quiet apartment. I used the toilet, then washed my hands. I couldn’t help it then. Trying to be silent, I opened the medicine cabinet. On a slightly rusted metal shelf was a can of shaving cream, an expensive-looking chrome razor, deodorant, a wood-handled brush and nail clippers. I had more toiletries in my purse than my father had in his whole apartment.
Back in the living room, my father was still in the chair, the notes in his hand. As I came into the room, he put them on his l
ap. He said nothing. Although I was somewhat used to his silences, I wondered if his quiet was because he knew I’d been snooping in the bathroom.
I decided I could be just as unreadable. I sat and pointed at the notes. “Got anything?”
He smiled, and nodded.
19
Valerie walked around her lifeless apartment. It felt that way, she supposed, because she herself had grown more and more like that, as if she were in a walking coma, getting ready for her mind to shut down. Because prison seemed real. Imminent. And the only way she could imagine surviving that was to become someone else and put away the person she was now.
She walked into the kitchen and turned on one small light. Although she had enjoyed wine before, in her other life, she had not had a glass of wine or a cocktail for months now. She had no taste for it, had little taste for anything. But now there was a pinprick of light in the flat existence in which she had been living. It was the light of possibility.
The reason for the slice of optimism was Izzy McNeil. She completely trusted the Bristols, but neither Martin nor Maggie had wanted the whole truth. She was fine not to give it. The whole truth would cause so many more problems. But still. But still, it cheered her somehow that Izzy wanted to know, wanted to understand. She had told Valerie again today—I want to believe you.
Valerie opened the door of the refrigerator, the light from inside making a bold entrance into the dimly lit kitchen. Although the sun still shone outside, it was always dark in her home these days. She had gotten used to closing all of the blinds and drapes to keep herself away from the curious eyes of her watching neighbors.
The refrigerator was old and mustard-colored. It had been here when she’d rented the West Side apartment after Brian died. Despite her hopes that she would come into some kind of salary stream, that she would find her calling and be able to replace the appliances, maybe even move back to the Gold Coast near Bridget and Amanda, such a bounty had never happened.
Her refrigerator, as well as her cupboards, was only spottily inhabited, aside from the supplies she’d bought the other night for the chocolate torta—the one she’d never made. Neither she nor Layla was particularly interested in grocery shopping lately. Or food. But she knew she should eat. She looked at the random contents of the fridge—ketchup, eggs, a slightly shriveled pear, a bottle of grapefruit juice, ground flax seed, a folded piece of foil with an old tortilla in it, half a carton of graying mushrooms, a few teaspoons of milk in the bottom of a carton, and a container of leftovers Layla must have brought home from a restaurant. She opened it—half-eaten strip steak. Where had Layla gone and ordered this? She looked at it a moment longer, then put it on the counter.
Claim of Innocence Page 7
