Dangerous Girls
Page 50
She looks at me, plaintive, wanting something. Absolution.
I exhale, suddenly clear. I can give her that much, at least. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell her gently. “She loved you. I know she didn’t like to show it, but none of the fights, none of that matters. You know that; you have to know.”
Judy’s eyes meet mine, hopeful this time. “I just hate to think of her . . . If she thought I didn’t care . . .”
“No, I promise. She loved you, both of you. She didn’t even mention your fight,” I reassure her. “She didn’t give it another thought. She was having fun. You know how she is.” I pause. “Was,” I correct softly.
Judy nods, and some of the tension in her body seems to ease. She takes a long breath, her expression smoothing out, peaceful now. “Thank you,” she says softly, and rises to her feet.
I blink. “But . . . You’re going?”
“I should get back.” Judy pulls on her jacket.
“You’re not going to help?” My voice twists. “But, if you talked to the judge, if you explained to him that you know me, and I would never . . . You could do something!”
“It’s out of my hands now.” Judy looks away, and I see for the first time, the flicker of doubt in her expression; the shadow drifting in the back of her eyes.
Doubt.
It strikes me like a dull blow, blood ringing in my ears as if from far away. My stomach drops, my body turns ice-cold. If Judy can doubt me—if she can think I’m capable of murder, after all the time we’ve spent together—then what hope do I have in court tomorrow, with Dekker snapping at my heels, and the judge sitting so icy and remote?
I push the fear down, desperate. “You didn’t ask me,” I say. She glances up, caught. “You didn’t ask me if I killed her.”
I thought it was because she believed me, unquestioning. She wouldn’t be here otherwise, would she?—Alone, bringing candy and memories?
She has to believe me.
Judy shrinks back, looking anywhere but me. “Anna, let’s not . . .”
“No. Ask me,” I demand. “Do it.”
Judy pauses, as if gathering her strength. She takes a breath, and then looks at me straight-on, with fearful eyes. “Did you . . . kill her?”
“No!” My voice breaks. I reach for her, pleading. “No, I promise you. I never . . . You know I loved her. It’s all a lie.”
“Then everything will be okay.” Judy cups my cheek for a moment, then steps back. “Just tell the truth and be yourself. It’ll all work out.”
My mouth drops open, helpless, as she knocks against the door. The guard steps inside. This time, he has the cuffs waiting.
“Judy, please.” My voice breaks. She smells of vanilla, and family, and lazy weekends wrapped in fluffy bathrobes and somebody else’s slippers. She smells like home.
“Look after yourself, sweetheart,” Judy says, not meeting my eyes, and then she’s gone.
NOW
She was wrong, they all were. Telling the truth doesn’t make a difference, nor does being true to yourself. If it did, I wouldn’t be here now, awaiting the verdict that’s going to decide the next twenty years of my life.
The next twenty birthdays and Christmases, the next twenty first days of summer, and last nights of fall. One thousand and forty Mondays. Seven thousand three hundred days of waking up here, penned in under an endless blue sky.
Except I won’t. I can’t.
Looking back now, I see how naive we all were. I stepped into that courtroom believing I’d have a fair shot—a chance to state my case and be heard, the way you’re supposed to. But the real truth is, it’s all a performance. The trial is no different from the Clara Rose Show, in its way, only instead of a film studio with lights and cameras, we have the courtroom as our stage. The lawyers and witnesses are all actors; the judge is our audience, and whoever can sell their version of the script—make you believe it, whether it’s fiction or fact—they’re the one who wins. It’s that simple. Evidence is just a prop; you can ignore it and look the other way, and even the script doesn’t matter when some supporting actor can improvise their scenes and steal the whole show.
Maybe if I’d known that, I could have played my part better, maybe even stopped it from getting this far at all. I guess it’s too late for that now.
Dekker knew it, though; he knew it from the start. What else was he doing, by leaking police reports and crime-scene photos weeks before even the trial date was set? He was setting the stage for his story, like a movie trailer cut with the juiciest scenes so people would go in already expecting the big showdown, anticipating the final twist. Watching him in court was like watching a conductor, like the time Elise’s parents dragged us out to the symphony. There was a tiny man up above the orchestra pit, waving and swirling that baton, painting whole landscapes in the air with every breath, making the music lift and fall, steering us effortlessly through the song.
Dekker wasn’t half as elegant as that tuxedoed man, but his power was just as strong. He carefully steered the performance, bringing in each new section of the chorus with a well-timed flourish: a scandalous photo, words of a fight, testimony of my anger and partying . . . He led our audience deftly through the script along his chosen path so that they would end the show with only one obvious conclusion in their minds: My guilt.
The curtain’s down now, but I won’t forget so easily: The performance never ends.
CLARA ROSE SHOW TRANSCRIPT
CLARA: . . . and a few times, even outright lying, or at least contradicting a lot of the testimony and statements we’ve already heard about the case.
<VIDEO CLIP>
ANNA: We went out. And maybe we went down some bad roads, but that was Elise. She, loved to have a good time. She was the outgoing one, you know? She was always looking for an adventure.
<END VIDEO CLIP>
CLARA: Well, Martin, we’ve had time now to go over the footage—exclusive footage, by the way, exclusive to the Clara Rose Show—so what’s your take on this? Is Anna telling the truth here, or is this just the latest in a long series of lies from the accused killer?
MARTIN: Looking at the clips we’ve seen, I’ve got to say, the thing that strikes me is the complete lack of personal responsibility. Time and again, she blames everybody else for the situation she’s in: Her friends wanted to go on vacation; her boyfriend told her to lie about their alibis; the prosecutor has some kind of personal vendetta—
I exhale, suddenly clear. I can give her that much, at least. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell her gently. “She loved you. I know she didn’t like to show it, but none of the fights, none of that matters. You know that; you have to know.”
Judy’s eyes meet mine, hopeful this time. “I just hate to think of her . . . If she thought I didn’t care . . .”
“No, I promise. She loved you, both of you. She didn’t even mention your fight,” I reassure her. “She didn’t give it another thought. She was having fun. You know how she is.” I pause. “Was,” I correct softly.
Judy nods, and some of the tension in her body seems to ease. She takes a long breath, her expression smoothing out, peaceful now. “Thank you,” she says softly, and rises to her feet.
I blink. “But . . . You’re going?”
“I should get back.” Judy pulls on her jacket.
“You’re not going to help?” My voice twists. “But, if you talked to the judge, if you explained to him that you know me, and I would never . . . You could do something!”
“It’s out of my hands now.” Judy looks away, and I see for the first time, the flicker of doubt in her expression; the shadow drifting in the back of her eyes.
Doubt.
It strikes me like a dull blow, blood ringing in my ears as if from far away. My stomach drops, my body turns ice-cold. If Judy can doubt me—if she can think I’m capable of murder, after all the time we’ve spent together—then what hope do I have in court tomorrow, with Dekker snapping at my heels, and the judge sitting so icy and remote?
I push the fear down, desperate. “You didn’t ask me,” I say. She glances up, caught. “You didn’t ask me if I killed her.”
I thought it was because she believed me, unquestioning. She wouldn’t be here otherwise, would she?—Alone, bringing candy and memories?
She has to believe me.
Judy shrinks back, looking anywhere but me. “Anna, let’s not . . .”
“No. Ask me,” I demand. “Do it.”
Judy pauses, as if gathering her strength. She takes a breath, and then looks at me straight-on, with fearful eyes. “Did you . . . kill her?”
“No!” My voice breaks. I reach for her, pleading. “No, I promise you. I never . . . You know I loved her. It’s all a lie.”
“Then everything will be okay.” Judy cups my cheek for a moment, then steps back. “Just tell the truth and be yourself. It’ll all work out.”
My mouth drops open, helpless, as she knocks against the door. The guard steps inside. This time, he has the cuffs waiting.
“Judy, please.” My voice breaks. She smells of vanilla, and family, and lazy weekends wrapped in fluffy bathrobes and somebody else’s slippers. She smells like home.
“Look after yourself, sweetheart,” Judy says, not meeting my eyes, and then she’s gone.
NOW
She was wrong, they all were. Telling the truth doesn’t make a difference, nor does being true to yourself. If it did, I wouldn’t be here now, awaiting the verdict that’s going to decide the next twenty years of my life.
The next twenty birthdays and Christmases, the next twenty first days of summer, and last nights of fall. One thousand and forty Mondays. Seven thousand three hundred days of waking up here, penned in under an endless blue sky.
Except I won’t. I can’t.
Looking back now, I see how naive we all were. I stepped into that courtroom believing I’d have a fair shot—a chance to state my case and be heard, the way you’re supposed to. But the real truth is, it’s all a performance. The trial is no different from the Clara Rose Show, in its way, only instead of a film studio with lights and cameras, we have the courtroom as our stage. The lawyers and witnesses are all actors; the judge is our audience, and whoever can sell their version of the script—make you believe it, whether it’s fiction or fact—they’re the one who wins. It’s that simple. Evidence is just a prop; you can ignore it and look the other way, and even the script doesn’t matter when some supporting actor can improvise their scenes and steal the whole show.
Maybe if I’d known that, I could have played my part better, maybe even stopped it from getting this far at all. I guess it’s too late for that now.
Dekker knew it, though; he knew it from the start. What else was he doing, by leaking police reports and crime-scene photos weeks before even the trial date was set? He was setting the stage for his story, like a movie trailer cut with the juiciest scenes so people would go in already expecting the big showdown, anticipating the final twist. Watching him in court was like watching a conductor, like the time Elise’s parents dragged us out to the symphony. There was a tiny man up above the orchestra pit, waving and swirling that baton, painting whole landscapes in the air with every breath, making the music lift and fall, steering us effortlessly through the song.
Dekker wasn’t half as elegant as that tuxedoed man, but his power was just as strong. He carefully steered the performance, bringing in each new section of the chorus with a well-timed flourish: a scandalous photo, words of a fight, testimony of my anger and partying . . . He led our audience deftly through the script along his chosen path so that they would end the show with only one obvious conclusion in their minds: My guilt.
The curtain’s down now, but I won’t forget so easily: The performance never ends.
CLARA ROSE SHOW TRANSCRIPT
CLARA: . . . and a few times, even outright lying, or at least contradicting a lot of the testimony and statements we’ve already heard about the case.
<VIDEO CLIP>
ANNA: We went out. And maybe we went down some bad roads, but that was Elise. She, loved to have a good time. She was the outgoing one, you know? She was always looking for an adventure.
<END VIDEO CLIP>
CLARA: Well, Martin, we’ve had time now to go over the footage—exclusive footage, by the way, exclusive to the Clara Rose Show—so what’s your take on this? Is Anna telling the truth here, or is this just the latest in a long series of lies from the accused killer?
MARTIN: Looking at the clips we’ve seen, I’ve got to say, the thing that strikes me is the complete lack of personal responsibility. Time and again, she blames everybody else for the situation she’s in: Her friends wanted to go on vacation; her boyfriend told her to lie about their alibis; the prosecutor has some kind of personal vendetta—
