“I will.”
“And while you’re figuring it out, factor in that you have to do it without leaving home, because you’re on restriction until school starts. You can leave this ranch to go to church and to see Mrs. Ivers, but for no other reason.”
“Aw, Mom . . .”
“Believe me, there’s a price to be paid for love. You might as well learn that now.”
Chapter Twenty-three
When I was little, we had this old mare named Clementine’s Blue Ribbon. Mom used to put me up in the saddle while she was pulling weeds and Clem would just stand there with me on her back. She followed me around like a puppy in the fields and sometimes at night, she’d trot up as close to my window as she could and whinny. Mom said it was horse talk for goodnight special boy. And then one day Mom told me Clem had gone to Heaven. I went out to her stall and it was empty.
That was when I learned you could lose what you loved.
That’s how I feel now. Ever since I wrote to my dad, I’ve been—I don’t even know what word to use anymore. Not sad, not even pissed off. Empty maybe. I go to the mailbox every day and nothing ever comes.
Cissy hasn’t called or emailed or texted me either. It’s like she fell off the planet. I know what happened. My mom was right. She picked her dad’s side. I even understand it. But it hurts so much that sometimes I don’t want to turn on the light in my room or get out of bed.
She’s all I think about. I remember how she came up with the plan, saying no one has a right to keep you away from your own dad. She held my hand on the bus rides to the prison and back. All the way home she was saying how cool it would be to actually talk to him someday.
She knew how much I needed that.
Maybe That’s who I am, Mrs. Ivers, a guy who needs things he can’t get. I need Cissy to love me again and I need to talk to my dad.
Which pretty much means I’m screwed.
Today I registered for high school. Mrs. Ivers told mom I passed Language Arts with flying colors. Whatever the hell that means. It made my mom happy, and me too, I guess. It means I’ll see Cissy on Wednesday when school starts.
How will I look at her without being a total dork? I know Erik Jr. will glom onto her. She’s so smoking hot he’ll want her to be his girlfriend. If I see that how will I keep from going postal?
Maybe I’ll pretend to be sick all year.
I was going to quit writing in this book Mrs. Ivers gave me, but today was so amazing I don’t want to forget a single thing.
So there I was, standing out by the flag like a total loser while everyone else yelled and screamed about how cool it was to see each other. Being alone in a crowd is the worst, I think. Everyone belongs somewhere except you. Last year that would have pissed me off. I would have looked around and seen all those smiling kids and I would have hated them. If someone had looked at me sideways I would have flipped him off. There are different ways to start a fight. I guess I know that now.
Anyway I was standing there, wishing I’d worn my old favorite Vans instead of these dorky Nikes my mom made me buy, when I saw Cissy. She was with Principal Jeevers. They were next to the blue metal doors and the principal was yakking on. There were kids everywhere. Laughing, talking, playing hackey sack, listening to their iPods, talking on the phone. All the usual first day of school shit.
Still she saw me right away.
I waited for her to smile. When she didn’t, I walked away, went over to this alley between the gym and the auditorium, where it was quiet and dark.
I was there, with my eyes closed, leaning against the warm brick wall when I heard her say my name. I wanted to ask her what she wanted in a voice that made me sound tough, as if I didn’t care, but I couldn’t do it.
I missed you she said.
I don’t even remember what I said. All I know is one minute I was in the shade by myself and the next minute she was there with me.
SHE STILL LOVES ME!!!!
I can’t believe I doubted it. She says it hurt her feelings that I gave up so easily and I don’t know what to say to that. I guess when your dad’s in prison you learn to give up easily. My mom is the same way I think. But I won’t be like that anymore. From now on I’m gonna be a believer. Cissy says all I have to do is choose to be one and it’ll happen.
That was when she gave me this copy of Seattle magazine.
I knew right away it was going to cause trouble.
Winona stood in the small avocado-colored bathroom, peering between a pair of geometric-patterned curtains. From here, she could see most of the beach house’s backyard—brown now from the heat of August and early September—and dashes of the highway beyond the trees.
She saw Cissy at the end of the driveway next door, waiting. When the yellow school bus drove up and stopped, the girl went up the steps and disappeared inside.
Winona backed out of the bathroom, put on the slippers by her bed, and went next door. Upstairs, she found Mark in bed.
“You’re late,” he said, putting his newspaper down.
“I’m fat. I can only run so fast. You could always come to my house, you know.” She flicked off her slippers and climbed into bed with him. Snuggling close, she began unbuttoning his pajama top and kissing the hairy chest beneath.
In moments they had taken their clothes off and started to make love.
It was their new Monday morning routine, and Winona looked forward to it all week. After the fiasco with Noah and Cissy, she’d been afraid that Mark would leave her. He’d even tried, although that attempt wasn’t something they brought up. After two lonely weeks, he’d come back and now they were better than ever. They just didn’t talk about their families. Instead, they created a bubble world where they alone existed. Saturday nights, Monday mornings, Thursday afternoons; these were their times. Winona hoped like hell that Cissy tried out for soccer.
They lay entwined after sex. She kissed the curl of his shoulder and closed her eyes, almost falling asleep.
“It’s a long time until Thursday,” he said.
“You made the rules,” she murmured. “I say we tell Cissy we’re still together. All this sneaking around is ridiculous.”
“You haven’t seen her lately. She’s like some walking zombie. She’s never stayed mad at me this long. Not even when I was a drunk.”
“I hear Noah is pretty much the same way.”
“Don’t mention that kid’s name to me. Cissy asked my mom last week if she was totally sure she saw Dallas that night. Mom was so upset she had to take a pill to sleep.”
“Young love. It’s a durable thing, I guess.”
“Love. Christ. They’re fourteen years old. They’re too young to know what the hell love is.” He threw the covers back and got out of bed. “I need to go to work.”
When he left, she lay there for a few more moments, staring out the windows at the sunlit Canal. Finally, she got out of bed herself, slipped her nightgown and slippers back on, and followed him to the bathroom.
He put down his electric razor. “We know better than to talk about that.”
“I know. See you Thursday?”
“You bet.”
For the next seven hours, she focused on work. Clients came to her office, one after another, complaining mostly about each other and counting on her to sort through all their confused emotions and find a common ground.
Her last scheduled appointment concluded at just past four o’clock, and she kicked off her pumps, took off her navy blazer, and reached for her mayoral debate file. The town meeting was currently set for early November, and she intended to blow her competition out of the water with her well-reasoned, perfectly considered plan for running this town. She was adding thoughts to her speech file when her intercom buzzed.
“Winona?” Lisa said through the small black speakers. “Your nephew, Noah Raintree, is here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
Noah walked into her office and smiled at her. A ragged backpack hung negligently from one shoulder. He
He sat down across from her, let his backpack slump to the floor. “I need to hire a lawyer.”
“What did you do?”
“Jeez, Aunt Winona. Way to think the worst of me.”
“I did trust you, remember? You made me look like an idiot in front of my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, well. Your boyfriend is a dick.”
“And God knows your high opinion of him is so important to me. Why do you need a lawyer?”
“If I hire you, everything we say is confidential, right?”
“Have you been studying law in social studies?”
“When I was on restriction, I watched a lot of TV. Law and Order is awesome.”
“Okay, yes. Our communications are confidential.”
“And if you take my case, you have to do your best, right?”
“I would hardly do less. But you’d have to pay me a retainer, of course. Two thousand dollars is standard for me.”
He pulled a one-dollar bill out of his pocket and set it on her desk. “There’s a family discount, I hope.”
She glanced down at the wrinkled, wadded-up dollar, and then up at Noah. Whatever this was about, he took it seriously. She knew she should send him on his way, but her curiosity was piqued. There were few things she hated more than unanswered questions. So she took the dollar bill and put it in her desk drawer. “Okay, Perry Mason. Hit me with your best shot.”
He leaned sideways and pulled a magazine out of his back-pack. He put it on her desk and shoved it toward her.
She saw the lead article’s headline. Seattle’s Best Lawyers. It was Seattle magazine’s yearly listing of the state’s top legal eagles. “Is this your subtle way of telling me that I’m not universally lauded by my peers? Because believe me, Noah, when a lawyer opens up shop in Oyster Shores, she pretty much knows her place on the food chain. And P.S., it’s near the bottom.”
“Turn to page ninety.”
She did. Beside an ad for one of the city’s newest high-rises, she saw a gloomy photograph of a man standing in front of a prison guard tower. The headline read: Innocence Project Northwest Works to Exonerate the Wrongly Accused.
“It’s about DNA testing,” he said.
“Noah,” she said gently, “that’s all water under the bridge with your dad. It’s over.”
“It’s not,” he said, stubbornly jutting out his chin. “They never tested his DNA. Mom told me.”
“Yes, they did.”
“No, they didn’t.”
She thought about that, scrolled through the facts she could recall. “Oh. That’s right. The sample was too small.”
“Maybe the tests are better now.”
“Look, Noah—”
“I got to know you this summer,” he said, leaning forward. “No missed spots, you always said, no rushed jobs. Remember? You hate things that aren’t done right.”
She sat back, surprised. She would have sworn he hadn’t listened to her. “Your dad won’t agree to this, you know. Why would he? Guilty people don’t want their DNA tested.”
“If he doesn’t agree to the test then I’ll have an answer, won’t I?”
Winona felt a headache start behind her eyes. These were dangerous waters suddenly. “Your mom and I have . . . history with your father . . .”
“Please, Aunt Winona,” he said. “You’re the only one I can trust with this. If you tell me it’s nothing, I’ll believe you. I just want you to tell me if a new test would give him a chance.”
“Does your mother know you’re here?”
“No.”
“I couldn’t keep this from her.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
She didn’t see how she could say no. It was so little to ask, and once she had an answer for him, maybe he could finally—finally—let this go. God knew that would be best for Vivi Ann, for Noah. And besides, she knew for a fact that Dallas wouldn’t go along with it. “Fine. I’ll read the article and look through the record. But no promises.”
He smiled so brightly she had to turn away. How many times and in how many ways was Dallas Raintree going to hurt the people who cared about him?
More firmly she said, “No promises.”
A week later, as autumn leaves fell in a flurry outside her window, Winona closed her office door, told Lisa to hold all her calls, and settled down to read the transcript she’d ordered. Drawing the seventeen-hundred-page document onto her lap, she put on the drugstore magnifying glasses she’d recently begun to need and began the slow, arduous task of reading the testimony given at his trial.
It was like opening a door on the past. The words brought the whole experience back to her, the sensation of sitting there, hearing one damning fact after another, of watching Vivi Ann try so hard to be strong, and listening to the prosecutor, so certain she had truth on her side of the courtroom.
Winona didn’t need to take notes. It was all exactly as she remembered—the foundation of Cat and Dallas’s friendship, the naïveté Vivi Ann showed in letting that relationship continue, the convenience of Dallas’s so-called fever hitting on the exact night Cat was murdered. And then there was the forensic evidence apart from the DNA: the hairs found in Cat’s bed, microscopically consistent with Dallas’s, and his fingerprints on the gun. There had been no doubt left after all of that, reasonable or otherwise.
Noah didn’t understand. Dallas hadn’t been railroaded or subjected to prosecutorial misconduct or improper police technique. A jury of his peers had found him guilty based on the totality of the evidence presented. It wasn’t some small-town miscarriage of justice. It was a verdict rooted in fact, and of the evidence, certainly Myrtle’s eyewitness testimony had been the most compelling.
Winona reread that section of the transcript, although she remembered it pretty clearly.
HAMM: And where is the ice-cream shop in relation to Catherine Morgan’s home?
MICHAELIAN: Down the alley. You go right past us to get to her place.
HAMM: Please speak up, Ms. Michaelian.
MICHAELIAN: Oh. Yes. Sorry.
HAMM: Were you working at the ice-cream shop on Christmas Eve of last year?
MICHAELIAN: I was. I wanted to make a special ice-cream cake for the evening service. I was running late, as usual.
Winona skipped down.
HAMM: Did you see anyone that night?
MICHAELIAN: It was about eight-ten. I was almost ready to go. I was putting the finishing touches on the frosting when I looked up and saw . . . saw Dallas Raintree coming out of the alley that leads to Cat’s house.
HAMM: Did he see you?
MICHAELIAN: No.
HAMM: And how did you know it was the defendant?
MICHAELIAN: I saw his profile when he passed under the streetlamp, and I recognized his tattoo. But I already knew it was him. I’d seen him there before at night. Lots of times. I’d even told Vivi Ann about it. It was him. I’m sorry, Vivi Ann.
Winona put the doorstop-sized pile of paper aside and got up from the couch, stretching to work out the kinks in her back. “Thank God.”
No DNA test was going to save Dallas Raintree at this late date. That was for innocent men.
Feeling better (she hated to admit it, but Noah had planted a tiny seed of doubt and that didn’t sit well with her), she wandered back into the kitchen and stared into her fridge. There was plenty of food there, but none of it appealed to her. A quick glance at the clock on the stove told her it was eight o’clock.
Maybe she should walk down to the ice-cream shop. The idea of Myrtle’s famous Neapolitan cake had whetted her appetite.
On this early evening, it was quiet in town. Labor Day was the official end of summer around here, the day tourists packed up their motor homes and drove away. Without their loud voices, you could hear the water again, and the mournful call of the wind through the trees. Locals loved these first weeks of September best of all: the sun was still shining, the days were still hot, and the Canal was theirs again.
Winona went up to the window at the ice-cream shop and ordered a piece of Myrtle’s Neapolitan ice-cream cake from the pimply-faced girl working the take-out counter.
While she waited, Winona pictured Myrtle at the window, looking out as she spread frosting on her frozen cake. The shop was elevated; Myrtle would have had a clear view of the start of the alley.
Winona turned toward it. A black ironwork streetlamp was right there, standing sentinel, throwing a net of warm golden light down onto the sidewalk.
The girl came back to the window, said, “Here you go, Mrs. Grey. That’ll be three dollars and ninety-two cents.”
“Ms. Grey,” she muttered, paying for her cake. When she’d gotten her change, she turned back toward the streetlamp. It was in the perfect spot; Dallas would have been easily identifiable by Myrtle, who knew him. True, he was never facing the ice-cream shop, but a profile was plenty in good light, when you knew the person.
“I’ll explain it to Noah,” she said to herself. “Maybe I’ll even bring him down here to show him. He’ll know I took him seriously.”
She crossed the street, taking a bite of cake, remembering Myrtle’s testimony in detail.
I’d seen him there before.
I recognized his tattoo.
Winona stopped. Turning slowly, she walked back down Shore Drive, past the souvenir shop and the fish bar, to the ice-cream shop.
From this vantage point, Myrtle saw Dallas’s right side.
Winona had always had a photographic memory, and she’d noticed Dallas’s tattoo when she hired him. She would have sworn it was on his left arm.
She must be mistaken. A flurry of people had gone through this evidence, the prosecution team, the police, even reporters. No way a fact like this got overlooked.
Of course, the cops and the prosecution wouldn’t have been trying to discredit Myrtle. Only the defense team would have looked that closely. The defense attorney, she corrected. There had been no team, but surely Roy had done it.
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