Dangerous Girls
Page 62
Gates exchanges a look with my dad.
“What?” I demand. “It’s true, she came every day. What’s her name—Marta, Martha? Where is she? We have to get her on the stand. She can back me up!”
“Marta and her family moved off the island,” Gates says slowly.
“So?” I cry. “The judge can make them come, can’t she? Force her to testify.”
Gates and my dad share another look, then Gates lets out a sigh. “They moved to America, to work for the Dempseys.”
I stop. “I don’t understand.”
“It was a payoff,” he says slowly. “Back before Tate cut his deal. Remember, he was a suspect too. She probably saw him with Elise, something they wanted to keep hidden.” Gates explains. “They gave her a job, probably got her a visa, a house, too.”
“But . . . that doesn’t mean she can’t testify,” I say, desperate. “She was there. She can tell them all, Melanie’s lying.”
Gates shakes his head. “Even if the judge compels her to come back, it won’t be credible. Dekker will say part of the payoff was lying about this.”
“But we didn’t pay her off!” I cry. “That was Tate!”
“It won’t make a difference.”
I grab the chair and hurl it to the back of the room. It clatters against the wall with a screech of metal. “But it’s not true!” I gasp, the pressure pinning down on my chest again. “None of it is true!”
I sink to the floor, tears coming now, uncontrollably. How could Mel do it—sit up there and lie like that? She had to know what it would mean for me, that I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison now, because of something she made up to spite me. I gasp for air, shaking. From a long way off, I hear a knock at the door. Gates goes to answer it, but my dad doesn’t move, he just stands there, stranded on the other side of the room.
I don’t know how long I’m huddled there, weeping, but eventually my sobs fade away, leaving nothing but a thundering headache and the dry soreness of my throat. Lee crouches down beside me and offers the water again. This time, I take it.
The door opens. Gates returns.
“We should ask to recess until tomorrow,” Lee says, but Gates shakes his head. He rights the chair from where I hurled it, then sits down at the table.
“Anna?”
I look up from the floor.
“I just talked to Dekker,” he says slowly. “He’s willing to cut a deal.”
I freeze.
“What kind of deal?” my dad asks urgently.
“Manslaughter,” Gates says with a slow exhale. “He wants a ten-year sentence, but you’d be up for parole before then. Eight years.”
There’s silence.
I look around the room. Gates looks relieved. My dad is still staring at the floor. Lee is thoughtful. “Why would he do that?” I ask finally. “With what Mel said, why would he offer me something?”
“Plenty of reasons.” Gates can’t stop smiling now, like this is a good thing, like he’s relieved. “Mel lied the first time on the stand; maybe he doesn’t want to risk the judge ignoring her. Then there’s the video, with Juan. He’s trying for first-degree murder here—he has to prove you meant to kill her, that you planned it.”
“But I didn’t!”
“This is a good deal,” he says. “Better than I thought we’d get.”
I try to think, to pull back from the edge of despair and see this clearly. Manslaughter. A plea. “I’d have to say I did it,” I say, realizing. “I’d have to say I’m guilty.”
“Manslaughter is unintentional death,” Gates quickly replies. “He’s saying you didn’t mean to kill her. You fought; you lost control. A crime of passion, in the moment.”
“But I didn’t.” I look at them, plaintive. “I didn’t kill her.”
“I know it’s a lot to think about.” Gates’s tone is gentle. “But this is a limited-time offer. He wants it wrapped up before the judge calls us back for closing arguments.”
“I have to decide now?”
“I’m sorry.” Gates looks apologetic. “I know it’s fast, but this is a good thing.”
“How can you say that?” I cry. “It’s prison! I’d be guilty. I’d go back there for years!”
My words echo. Gates looks away.
“You think I should take it.” My heart twists.
He sighs. “I do. A lot of evidence is circumstantial, but it doesn’t look good. The affair, Mel’s testimony—”
“She’s lying!” I cry again.
“Either way, do you want to risk it with the judge?” Gates leans across the table, solemn. “If she convicts you of murder, that’s a twenty-year sentence, minimum. Twenty years. At least, this way, you’d be out sooner. You’d have a life, after.”
After.
I choke back another sob. “Daddy?” I ask, my voice wavering. “I don’t know . . . I can’t think straight. What should I do? Tell me.”
My father swallows and finally meets my eyes. “Gates is right, sweetie,” he says quietly. “You should take the deal.”
The words are soft, but they crash through me like thunder. I stare at him, dumbfounded, and then I see it: the faint flicker in his eyes. He tries to look away and hide it, but it’s too late. I see.
He thinks I’m guilty.
My heart breaks wide-open.
“Eight years isn’t so long.” He hurries to my side, trying to cover the betrayal. “You’d be twenty-five. That’s still young, you could have a life, do whatever you want.”
“But I didn’t do it.” My voice is thin and tired. I can’t move, not a single limb. He sits beside me on the floor. “I didn’t . . .”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” is all he can say, over and over. He hugs me close, and for a moment I’m a kid again, crawling into his lap. Before the long work nights and the hospital rooms, and everything began to change. Before I wound up here, staring into the bleak abyss of years in prison, my whole youth, locked away in that terrible place. “I’m so, so sorry.”
EIGHT YEARS
I was going to go to college, some sun-drenched campus far away.
I was going to take film, and women’s studies, classes in literature and ancient philosophy.
I was going to study abroad in Prague, and walk those golden bridges. Sip coffee in tiny cafés and flirt with cute waiters.
“What?” I demand. “It’s true, she came every day. What’s her name—Marta, Martha? Where is she? We have to get her on the stand. She can back me up!”
“Marta and her family moved off the island,” Gates says slowly.
“So?” I cry. “The judge can make them come, can’t she? Force her to testify.”
Gates and my dad share another look, then Gates lets out a sigh. “They moved to America, to work for the Dempseys.”
I stop. “I don’t understand.”
“It was a payoff,” he says slowly. “Back before Tate cut his deal. Remember, he was a suspect too. She probably saw him with Elise, something they wanted to keep hidden.” Gates explains. “They gave her a job, probably got her a visa, a house, too.”
“But . . . that doesn’t mean she can’t testify,” I say, desperate. “She was there. She can tell them all, Melanie’s lying.”
Gates shakes his head. “Even if the judge compels her to come back, it won’t be credible. Dekker will say part of the payoff was lying about this.”
“But we didn’t pay her off!” I cry. “That was Tate!”
“It won’t make a difference.”
I grab the chair and hurl it to the back of the room. It clatters against the wall with a screech of metal. “But it’s not true!” I gasp, the pressure pinning down on my chest again. “None of it is true!”
I sink to the floor, tears coming now, uncontrollably. How could Mel do it—sit up there and lie like that? She had to know what it would mean for me, that I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison now, because of something she made up to spite me. I gasp for air, shaking. From a long way off, I hear a knock at the door. Gates goes to answer it, but my dad doesn’t move, he just stands there, stranded on the other side of the room.
I don’t know how long I’m huddled there, weeping, but eventually my sobs fade away, leaving nothing but a thundering headache and the dry soreness of my throat. Lee crouches down beside me and offers the water again. This time, I take it.
The door opens. Gates returns.
“We should ask to recess until tomorrow,” Lee says, but Gates shakes his head. He rights the chair from where I hurled it, then sits down at the table.
“Anna?”
I look up from the floor.
“I just talked to Dekker,” he says slowly. “He’s willing to cut a deal.”
I freeze.
“What kind of deal?” my dad asks urgently.
“Manslaughter,” Gates says with a slow exhale. “He wants a ten-year sentence, but you’d be up for parole before then. Eight years.”
There’s silence.
I look around the room. Gates looks relieved. My dad is still staring at the floor. Lee is thoughtful. “Why would he do that?” I ask finally. “With what Mel said, why would he offer me something?”
“Plenty of reasons.” Gates can’t stop smiling now, like this is a good thing, like he’s relieved. “Mel lied the first time on the stand; maybe he doesn’t want to risk the judge ignoring her. Then there’s the video, with Juan. He’s trying for first-degree murder here—he has to prove you meant to kill her, that you planned it.”
“But I didn’t!”
“This is a good deal,” he says. “Better than I thought we’d get.”
I try to think, to pull back from the edge of despair and see this clearly. Manslaughter. A plea. “I’d have to say I did it,” I say, realizing. “I’d have to say I’m guilty.”
“Manslaughter is unintentional death,” Gates quickly replies. “He’s saying you didn’t mean to kill her. You fought; you lost control. A crime of passion, in the moment.”
“But I didn’t.” I look at them, plaintive. “I didn’t kill her.”
“I know it’s a lot to think about.” Gates’s tone is gentle. “But this is a limited-time offer. He wants it wrapped up before the judge calls us back for closing arguments.”
“I have to decide now?”
“I’m sorry.” Gates looks apologetic. “I know it’s fast, but this is a good thing.”
“How can you say that?” I cry. “It’s prison! I’d be guilty. I’d go back there for years!”
My words echo. Gates looks away.
“You think I should take it.” My heart twists.
He sighs. “I do. A lot of evidence is circumstantial, but it doesn’t look good. The affair, Mel’s testimony—”
“She’s lying!” I cry again.
“Either way, do you want to risk it with the judge?” Gates leans across the table, solemn. “If she convicts you of murder, that’s a twenty-year sentence, minimum. Twenty years. At least, this way, you’d be out sooner. You’d have a life, after.”
After.
I choke back another sob. “Daddy?” I ask, my voice wavering. “I don’t know . . . I can’t think straight. What should I do? Tell me.”
My father swallows and finally meets my eyes. “Gates is right, sweetie,” he says quietly. “You should take the deal.”
The words are soft, but they crash through me like thunder. I stare at him, dumbfounded, and then I see it: the faint flicker in his eyes. He tries to look away and hide it, but it’s too late. I see.
He thinks I’m guilty.
My heart breaks wide-open.
“Eight years isn’t so long.” He hurries to my side, trying to cover the betrayal. “You’d be twenty-five. That’s still young, you could have a life, do whatever you want.”
“But I didn’t do it.” My voice is thin and tired. I can’t move, not a single limb. He sits beside me on the floor. “I didn’t . . .”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” is all he can say, over and over. He hugs me close, and for a moment I’m a kid again, crawling into his lap. Before the long work nights and the hospital rooms, and everything began to change. Before I wound up here, staring into the bleak abyss of years in prison, my whole youth, locked away in that terrible place. “I’m so, so sorry.”
EIGHT YEARS
I was going to go to college, some sun-drenched campus far away.
I was going to take film, and women’s studies, classes in literature and ancient philosophy.
I was going to study abroad in Prague, and walk those golden bridges. Sip coffee in tiny cafés and flirt with cute waiters.
