by Jason Starr
He meant it, too. It was very thoughtful of her to come over in the middle of the night to give her support. She didn’t have to do that.
“Of course I was going to come,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?”
When Sharon and Jennifer were gone and Dana and Adam were alone in the living room, Dana asked, “Why does he want to talk to Marissa again?”
Adam didn’t want to tell her that Clements had mentioned the bong in Marissa’s room, knowing it would only upset her. He figured he’d tell her about it tomorrow.
“I think it’s just some more routine-type questions,” Adam said. “He knows how tired we are, so I think it’ll only take a few minutes.”
Adam could tell that Dana knew he was keeping something from her—a woman always knows; well, almost always knows—but she let it pass.
“So how’re you doing?” Dana asked. “Okay, considering,” Adam said. “Maybe you should talk to somebody.”
Earlier, Detective Clements had asked Adam if he wanted to talk to a psychologist, which Adam had thought was a slightly strange question to ask a psychologist.
“I’ll have a session with Carol,” Adam said.
Carol Levinson was one of the therapists with whom Adam shared office space. He wasn’t in formal therapy with her, but he talked to her on an as needed basis.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” Adam said. “How’re you doing?” “I’m okay,” she said. “I guess.”
There was a coldness in Dana’s tone, an undercurrent of distance, and Adam knew it had to do with the gun. She’d been opposed to having it in the house, and she’d asked him to get rid of it on several occasions. He’d explained to her that he felt it was necessary, that he felt too vulnerable and unprotected without it, and finally she’d agreed that as long as they kept it hidden she was fine with it. But now he knew she was harboring resentment and secretly blamed him for the shooting. Of course, she wouldn’t actually say something about it—not now, anyway. No, that wasn’t her style. In these situations, she always avoided confrontation and was frequently evasive and passive-aggressive. She’d let it simmer for a while first to create more drama, and then, maybe a couple of days from now, she’d bring it up.
“I’d tell you to go to sleep now,” Adam said, “but I think Clements is going to want to talk to you again, too.”
“I just want all these cops out of the house.” “Me, too. But it can’t be much longer now.” “Is the body still there?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t check.” “Are the reporters still outside?” “Probably.”
“I don’t want to be in the newspapers,” she said. “I don’t want my name, your name, and I definitely don’t want Marissa’s name in there.”
“I don’t think there’s any avoiding it.”
“My God, do you think it’ll be front-page news?”
Adam thought it could make the front page of all the major papers—a shooting in an affluent New York City neighborhood had to be a major news story—but he wanted to placate her and said, “I doubt it.”
“It’ll definitely be on the TV news,” she said, sounding not at all placated. “I saw all the cameras out there. New York One, for sure, and probably all the local news shows.”
“You never know,” Adam said. “By tomorrow there’ll probably be other big news stories, and this one’ll get buried.”
He could tell Dana still wasn’t buying any of this. Well, he’d given it a try, anyway.
“What about the other guy?” she asked. “Did the detective say they think they were gonna find him?”
“I’m sure they’ll find him soon, probably before morning,” Adam said. He could tell how upset she was, so he kissed her and hugged her tightly and said, “I’m so sorry about all of this. I really am.” He held her for a while longer, and he knew that she was thinking about saying something about the gun again, that it took all her self-control to not lay into him about it.
Instead they let go and she said, “I just want this all to go away. I want to go to sleep and wake up and find out none of this ever happened.”
Several minutes later, Marissa returned from talking to the detective, and then Dana went into the dining room to answer a few more questions. Marissa looked distraught, which made Adam feel awful. She’d called him daddy earlier, and he realized how, despite all her acting out lately, she was still his little girl. He hugged her tightly and kissed her on top of her head and said, “Don’t worry, kiddo. Things’ll be back to normal soon, you’ll see.”
There were still cops and other police personnel in the kitchen, in the living room, and especially near the staircase, dusting for fingerprints and apparently looking for other forensic evidence. He looked out a window and saw that news trucks were still there, and reporters were milling around on the lawn; and some neighbors were there, too. He knew the reporters were probably waiting to talk to someone from the family, to get a few good sound bites, so he figured he might as well get it over with.
He went outside and it was very surreal—standing in front of his house at four in the morning with all the lights in his face and the reporters shouting questions. He recognized a couple of the reporters—What’s Her Name Olsen from Fox News and the young black guy from Channel 11. Somebody was holding a boom with a mike over his head, and people were sticking mikes from ABC, WINS, NY1, and other stations in front of his face. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention; he normally tried to avoid being in the spotlight. For years he’d suffered from glossophobia, a fear of public speaking, and he usually tried to stay in the background, to be an observer. At psychology conferences, he never made a presentation unless he absolutely had to, and then he had to use a number of cognitive-behavioral strategies to overcome his anxiety.
“Why did you shoot him?” the guy from Channel 11 asked.
“I didn’t have any choice,” Adam said, already sweaty. “He was coming up the stairs in the middle of the night and when I shouted for him to get out he didn’t leave. I think anyone in my position would’ve done the same thing.”
“Did you know he wasn’t armed?” What’s Her Name Olsen asked. “No, I did not,” Adam said.
“Would you do it all over again?” a guy in the back shouted.
“Yes,” Adam said. “If I was in the same situation, if someone broke into my house and I thought my family was in danger, I think I would. Absolutely.”
There were a lot more questions, and they all had a similar vaguely accusing tone. Adam was surprised because he’d thought that he’d be treated more sympathetically by the press. Instead he felt like he had when Clements was questioning him, like the reporters were trying to put him on the spot, trying to draw out some hidden truth that didn’t exist.
But he remained out there for a half hour or longer, fielding every question the reporters asked him calmly and politely. He used the techniques he sometimes suggested to his patients—focusing on his breathing, speaking from his chest rather than his throat—and gradually he felt more relaxed, almost normal. When the reporters were out of questions, he thanked them for their time and went back into the house.
WHEN MARISSA heard the gunshots, she was convinced her father was dead. God, it had been so stupid to go out there with the gun and start shooting, what the hell had he been thinking? But that was just the way her dad was—when he made his mind up to do something he got totally possessed.
Hiding in the closet with her mother, Marissa had started to scream, but her mom put a hand over her mouth, shutting her up, and said, “Shh.”
She could tell how angry her mother was about the gun, too. It had all happened so fast, there was nothing either of them could do to stop him.
The gunfire ended very quickly—it seemed to last for only a few seconds— and the house was silent.
Her mom said, “Wait here,” and went to see what was going on. Marissa, afraid her mother would get shot, too, went to try to stop her, but then they saw her dad standing there at the top of the landing, ho
lding the gun. He looked so terrified and panicked, and then he lost it and shouted for her and her mom to get back to the bedroom.
A few minutes later, he joined them. “Did you kill him?” her mom asked. “Yes,” her dad said.
“Is he dead?”
Her dad swallowed, clearing his throat, then said, “Yes, he’s dead.”
When the police arrived, her dad went down to talk to them and explain what had happened. Then they heard more sirens, and more cops arrived. Marissa and her mom stayed upstairs for a while longer, talking to some cop who grossed her out the way he kept smiling at her and checking out her boobs; then they took the back staircase downstairs. On her way past the main staircase, Marissa took a peek over her shoulder, looking down toward the bottom of the stairwell, and saw the blood and one of the guy’s legs—his jeans and a black high-top sneaker. God, this was so fucked up.
Downstairs, a cop took Marissa and her mom into the living room and asked them questions. Her mom was much more together than she was, or least she seemed more together. She was able to describe everything that had happened, but when Marissa spoke it was hard to keep her thoughts organized, and she thought she sounded scattered.
After what seemed like forever her dad came into the living room and said, “How’re you guys doing? You two okay?”
She could tell he was trying to put up a front. He was trying to take charge, be Mr. Strong, Mr. In Control, but he had never been as in touch with his emotions as he thought he was. Just because he was a shrink didn’t mean that he wasn’t as screwed up as the rest of the world. She could tell that inside he was terrified, a total mess. She felt sorry for him, but she also knew that he’d gotten himself into this situation. No one had made him get that gun. No one had made him pull the trigger.
“A detective just got here,” her dad said. “He’s gonna want to ask us some questions.” He sounded removed, deadpan.
“Are you okay?” her mom asked her dad. She was obviously furious but trying to restrain herself.
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” her dad said. Then, without emotion, he added, “So they didn’t find a gun.”
Now her mom was raging, seething. Her dad seemed oblivious, but how could he be? It was so obvious.
“Are they sure?” she asked.
“Yeah,” her dad said, “but it’s not my fault. I saw him reach for something.
What was I supposed to do?”
She could tell he wanted reassurance, but there was no way he was going to get it from her mom.
“I have to sit down,” her mom said.
A few minutes later, when her dad left the room to talk with the detective who’d just arrived, her mom said to her, “What the fucking hell was he thinking?”
It wasn’t like her mom to curse. It was kind of scary actually.
“I know, right?” Marissa said. “When he got the gun I couldn’t believe it.
I was, like, what the hell’re you doing?”
“I’m so angry right now I just want to . . . I just want to strangle him.”
Her mom’s face was red. Marissa couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mom so angry. Maybe she never had.
Although Marissa was pretty angry at her dad herself, she felt like she had to take on the role of calming her mom down and said, “I guess he was just doing what he thought he had to do.”
“He thought he had to go shoot someone?” her mom said. “Come on, give me a break, okay? I was on the phone with nine-one-one, how long did it take the police to get here, five minutes? We could’ve locked ourselves in the bedroom, hidden in the closet. He didn’t have to take the gun out, and he sure as hell didn’t have to shoot somebody.”
“Maybe it was like he said, he thought he was defending himself.”
“I don’t care what he thought,” her mom said. “How many times did I tell him to get rid of that stupid gun? Just a few weeks ago I told him I didn’t feel comfortable with it in the house, and he hit me with his usual”—she tried to imitate Adam, making her voice deeper—“It’s just for protection. I’ll never actually use it.” Then in her normal voice she said, “I knew something like this was going to happen, it was just a matter of time.”
Detective Clements came into the living room to talk with Marissa and Dana. They pretty much told him what they’d told the first cop, Dana doing most of the talking. Then Clements and Marissa’s dad went back into the dining room for another round of questioning. Sharon Wasserman and Jennifer Berg had come over. Marissa was best friends with Sharon’s daughter, Hillary, who had graduated from Northwestern last year and was now living in the city. Jennifer’s son, Josh, was going to GW Law School and in seventh grade had been Marissa’s first boyfriend.
After what seemed like at least an hour, Clements and Marissa’s dad returned, and Clements said he wanted to talk to Marissa, alone this time. Marissa was exhausted and just wanted to get into bed and crash, and she didn’t see why she had to answer the same questions all over again.
She went back into the dining room with Clements and sat across from him at the table.
“I know it’s late,” Clements said, “but there are a few more things I need to run by you.”
“Okay,” Marissa said, crossing her arms tightly in front of her chest. “Your friends,” he said, “any of them have a criminal background?” “No.”
“I’m not necessarily talking about jail time. I’m talking about anyone who might’ve stolen something in the past, or talked about wanting to steal something, or—”
“If you think one of my friends broke into our house with that guy, you’re crazy.”
“What about drug users? Any of your friends do drugs?”
Of course her friends did drugs. Well, some of her friends. She was twenty-two years old, for God’s sake—but what was she supposed to do, rat out her friends to some cop?
“No,” she said.
He seemed incredulous. “Sorry,” he said, “but you’re gonna have to answer these questions honestly.”
Thinking, Yeah, right, I’m not under oath, she asked, “What do my friends have to do with our house getting robbed?”
“Where do you get your pot, Marissa?”
Now, not only was she upset, but she was starting to get seriously scared. She had a bong in her room and a dime bag of pot in the back of her underwear drawer. She didn’t know if Clements had been up to her room yet, but he probably had. Still, she wasn’t dumb enough to admit drug use to a police detective.
“What’re you talking about?” she asked. “I was in your room,” he said.
Her heart was beating so fast and so hard, she felt like it was making her rock back and forth.
“Look, I’m telling you,” she said, “none of my friends had anything to do with this, that’s crazy.”
“I’ll ask you one last time. Where do you get your drugs?”
She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t let herself. “I don’t do drugs,” she said. “I saw the bong in your—”
“A friend left it here, okay? I’m just watching it for her.” “Watching it, huh?” He smirked.
She was a shitty liar and knew she couldn’t keep this going, so she said, “It’s mine, okay? What’re you gonna do, arrest me for having a bong?”
“Possession of marijuana is illegal.” “It’s not mine,” she said desperately.
“This is the last time I’m going to ask you,” he said. “Where do you get your pot?”
“My friend Darren.”
“How do I get in touch with him?” This guy was such an asshole. “Why do you have to—”
“What’s his phone number?” he asked.
Darren was a guy she’d gone to Vassar with—an on-again, off-again boyfriend—who was now back living with his parents on the Upper West Side. If he got busted, he was going to fucking kill her.
She gave Clements Darren’s number and said, “But please don’t call him.
I’m telling you, he has nothing to do with this.
”
Clements ignored her and asked, “Have any of your friends committed any crimes or talked about committing crimes or served any time for a crime?”
Immediately she thought of Darren, who’d once spent a night in jail in Poughkeepsie when he’d gotten pulled over and the cops had found a joint in his car, but how much trouble was she going to get the poor guy into?
“No,” Marissa said. “No one.”
“I know we’ve been through this already, but did you ever meet Carlos Sanchez?”
“Never.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I just know, that’s why.”
He put a small plastic bag on the table with a driver’s license inside it. “Look familiar?” he asked.
She glanced at the picture—scruffy guy, kind of ugly, with cold, detached eyes. She’d never seen him before in her life.
“No, never,” she said.
Clements didn’t seem satisfied. He asked, “Ever lend anyone a key to the house or—”
“No, I’ve never lent anyone a key, ever.” “Are you telling me the truth?”
“What do you think, I gave somebody a key and said come rob my house?” “Is that what happened?”
“No, of course not.”
She couldn’t believe this.
Then Clements stood and said, “Okay, you’re gonna have to come with me now.”
“Come with you where?”
“Out to the staircase for a second. I want you to take a look at Sanchez.” Suddenly she felt sick. “You mean look at his body?”
“The driver’s license photo was several years old,” Clements said, “he’d gained a lot of weight. I want you to see if you recognize him.”
“Do I have to?” “Yes you have to.”
Although she’d never seen a dead body before—well, except at a few funerals she’d been to—she just wanted to get to sleep and didn’t really care one way or the other.
She went with Clements out to the foyer. The body was still at the bottom of the staircase, splayed the way it had been before, except now Marissa could see all of it. There were technicians working near the body, maybe collecting DNA evidence or looking for fingerprints or whatever, and there was blood—it looked purple—on the bottom stairs and on the floor in front of the staircase. There was much more blood than Marissa had expected to see, which made her queasy enough, but then as she got closer, she looked at the dead guy’s face. His eyes were half open, and there was blood leaking out of his nose. Something looked weird about his mouth, and then she realized that most of his jaw was missing.
