A Very Simple Crime (15 page)

“How did you meet Adam Lee?”

“At work. I was temping at the hospital where his son stays.”

“Yes, but what exactly were you doing the very first time you met Mr. Lee?”

Paula objected, mostly because she had no idea where this was going. “How many times must the witness answer the same question?”

Monty turned to Judge Cray. “Your Honor, I simply want the witness to tell the court exactly what task she was performing when she first met the defendant.”

“Overruled. The witness may answer the question.”

“I told you, I was working,” Violet said. Her bottom lip pouted out again, but not quite as red now. Those pouts had worn off a lot of lipstick.

“Come on, Ms. Perkins, you know what I’m driving at, don’t you?” Monty asked.

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“Isn’t it true, Ms. Perkins, that you were masturbating Mr. Lee’s son?”

Paula jumped to her feet and barely kept her voice below a yell. “Your Honor, this is outrageous.”

“The facts are the facts, Your Honor,” Monty said. “I can’t help it if Ms. Manning finds the facts uncomfortable. This relates directly to character.”

“Overruled. Answer the question, Ms. Perkins.”

Violet’s mouth was set like a little girl facing down a spoonful of castor oil. “I do it to help them sleep.”

“Do what?” Monty asked.

“I—”

“Did Adam Lee catch you masturbating his son, Albert?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I have nothing further.”

No way was Paula going to let it end on this note. She approached the witness box.

“Redirect, Your Honor?”

“Go ahead.”

“Ms. Perkins, when Mr. Lee asked you if Adam Lee called you after your weekend together, you said no, but you wanted to explain why.”

“Your Honor,” Monty asked, “unless Ms. Perkins is a mind reader, how could she possibly know why my client did not call her?”

“Sustained.”

Paula continued. “Okay, Ms. Perkins, is there any fact, within your scope of knowledge, that would have prevented Adam Lee from being able to contact you by telephone?”

“Yes. I had my number changed to an unlisted one.”

“And you didn’t give Adam Lee your new phone number?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to hear from him ever again.”

“Why not?”

“Adam is a very sick person.”

Monty objected. “Is Ms. Perkins seriously testifying as to my client’s state of health?”

Paula pushed ahead. “What do you mean when you say that Adam Lee is a very sick person?”

“He hurt me.”

“How exactly did Adam Lee hurt you? Do you mean physically?”

“Physically. Yes. He tied me to the bed and hurt me physically.”

“When was this?” Paula asked.

“Our last night in the mountains.”

“And how exactly did Adam Lee hurt you physically?”

“He tied me to the bed.”

Monty spoke up. “Your Honor, I’m afraid I can’t quite see how inventorying the consensual sex acts of Ms. Perkins and Adam Lee is relevant to the case at hand.”

“Mr. Lee opened the door to sex acts as an indicator of character,” Paula pointed out to the judge.

“You did do that, Mr. Lee. You can’t have it both ways. Overruled.”

Monty sat down and dared a quick glance at Adam. Adam looked only at the table in front of him.

Paula asked, “Did you agree to let the defendant tie you to the bed?”

“Yes, but I thought it was just going to be for fun. Once he had me tied up, he hurt me.”

“What exactly did he do to you once he had you bound?”

“He cut me in tiny places with a knife. He spit on me. When I said no, he raped me, anally. I bled for days. But before he let me go, he used the bathroom on me.”

“How do you mean?”

“He peed on me.”

“After sodomizing you and lacerating you with a knife blade, Adam Lee degraded you by spitting on you and urinating on you while you were defenseless.”

“That’s right.”

“Why didn’t you report this to the police?”

“Because I knew I couldn’t prove it. We had been having sex together for a long time. I could hardly believe it myself. I thought I knew Adam. I didn’t know he was capable of . . . I just didn’t know he was capable.”

I wait for Monty in the interview room. Today, like every other day, the trial did not go well for us. Monty made small victories, but they were Pyrrhic. We lost more ground than we gained. There is much criticism in the press. Criticism of my brother’s handling of my case. They say it is a weak defense he has mounted on my behalf. I read with interest the coverage of Anne Hunter. She has been particularly unmerciful in her writings of every aspect of the trial. In the paper today, the Hunter woman continues her tirade. She slants her story toward the “weird sex acts” that transpired between me and Violet, and the “buried rage” that drove me to torture and degradation. She is, of course, quite right in her assessment. She criticizes Monty for not prefiguring the disastrous consequences of a line of questioning that opens the door to sexual histories. Again, she is correct in her assessment. Monty is performing poorly. There is, however, a certain line in her article that reverberates in my mind. A legal analyst, when referring to Monty’s ineptitude, says, “it is almost as if he wants his brother to be caught.” The words echo in my mind, picking up speed, and I find myself thinking of a time when we were boys. Of a girl I cared for. Of sexual awakenings. Of sexual cruelties.

Monty enters the interview cell, his face a mask of despondency. He has not contacted me since our last disastrous day in court. I wait for him to speak.

“Well, I won’t lie to you. I mean, we blew the Perkins woman’s credibility all to hell. Made her look like the slut she is. But what was that shit about you tying her up and peeing on her?”

“It was lies.”

“Well, it sounded like lies. I hope it sounded like lies to the jury. Like she was desperate to make you look bad. But that old woman hurt us. Hurt us bad. Jesus, did you really say that? That Rachel was dead?”

“I wasn’t myself. It was a joke. I didn’t mean it.”

“Believe me, you don’t come across as the joking type. That old woman is going to sink us. How the fuck did they find that old bat? Jesus, I should never have called that bastard Leo.”

“No, I would say that was a mistake. One of several.” This is the first time I have commented on his performance in a negative light. Indeed, it is the first time I have ever dared criticize my brother.

“What are you trying to say? If you’re trying to say something, just fucking say it.”

“I’m trying to say that several mistakes have been made.”

“Yeah, taking some tramp for a weekend of S&M and water sports, that was a mistake. Running around to the geriatric twins and bragging about how your wife was dead and it didn’t really matter because she was a real bitch anyway, that was a mistake. Thinking a jury is gonna believe you if you get on the stand and tell them how you cleaned every microdrop of blood off Albert and washed all of his clothes before the police got to the crime scene, that was a mistake. And you know what else was a mistake, Adam? Killing your wife, that was a mistake.”

“It sounds like I need a new lawyer. No wonder you can’t convince anybody I’m innocent; you don’t believe it yourself.”

“What do you expect, Adam? You sure as hell
look
guilty.”

“I expect my lawyer to make me look
not
guilty.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that the case is going so badly. I guess I’d rather believe you’re guilty than believe I might lose the case. That you might go to prison. Or worse. Because of me. Because I failed.”

The moment has passed. Neither of us likes this sort of tension. We assume our old roles of weak and strong. “I have faith in you,” I tell him. “It will be because of you that I am set free.”

“I pray you’re right.” He prepares to leave. He has had enough of me for one day. I sicken him. I represent his own failure. “Look, I’ve got to get to the office. I’m supposed to meet with your shrink, what’s his name, Doctor—?”

“Salinger.”

“He says he’ll tell the jury you’re not crazy and he doesn’t believe, based on his professional opinion, that you’re capable of premeditated murder.”

“Premeditated?”

“Well, that’s what you’re accused of, and Salinger won’t testify without the qualification. He says we’re all capable of murder given the right amount of rage and provocation.”

“You don’t think that it will make me look bad, the fact that I’ve consulted a psychiatrist?”

“Believe me, at this point, it’s the last of our worries. He’ll also say that your having the affair was a way for you to work through your marriage difficulties, and I’m pretty sure that we can get him to say that what you said to Mrs. Oldster was just a way of letting off steam or some such bullshit. Don’t worry. I’m thinking ahead. All is not lost. I still have hope.”

Monty clasps my shoulders and gives me a halfhearted hug. I know that in his eyes, I am already lost.

“Anyway, I’ll try to come back tonight.”

He opens his briefcase and takes out a pair of sunglasses. He puts them on and I remember. I remember the last time I saw those glasses. He was passing me in his car, on my drive-way, and the light reflected off them so that his eyes were like two holes of white light. I remember. I—

“What is it?”

“What were you doing at my house that day?”

“What? What day?”

“I passed you in the drive. The weekend Rachel died.”

“Oh. She called me over. You know. She was half crazy. Drinking. The pills. I’m sorry, but you know how she was.”

“And what exactly did she call you over for?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“About how you wanted me to be Albert’s godfather. I dropped off the papers. You remember, the ones I refused to sign. Because I was afraid you were planning to do something crazy. Afraid you were up to something bad. And here we are.”

“You weren’t sleeping with my wife, were you, Monty? My crazy rich wife?”

“You’re talking out of your head. You know, of all people, you know how Rachel was. An affair? Come on, Adam. You’re under a lot of strain. Are you trying to say that I had something to do with Rachel’s death? Adam, you know who killed her. You cleaned the blood off your son, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. I’m just trying to get things straight in my mind.”

“Look, just try to get some rest. I was going to tell you later, but I think we’ll have to put you on the stand. It’s always a big risk, but with everything that’s happened, they’re going to have to hear it from you. They’re going to have to hear you say that you didn’t kill her.”

“Yes. They will have to hear me say that. I want something from you. I want you to call Anne Hunter. I want to talk to her. I want to tell her my story.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

“I want to do it.”

“It’s a very bad idea. These people in the press, they twist things around. They’re worse than lawyers. You’ll regret it.”

“Call her for me. It’s what I want.”

Finally, he agrees. His agreement tells me more than anything else that he believes all is lost. What is one more mistake in an endless series of mistakes? I nod to him as he leaves, and I think of those glasses, the circles of light, like twin summer suns. I think about that summer at the lake when we were boys and the girl we knew. I think about what happened that summer and wonder how it shaped me. I think about that summer and I wonder what my brother, my handsome, handsome brother is capable of.

It was the last summer before our parents would die in an automobile accident, but already Monty was the focus of my life. As only a young boy can know, my love and admiration for my older brother was without bounds. He could do no wrong. His every action was, in my eyes at least, flawless. When he threw a baseball, his aim was superb and sure, the pitch almost balletic. And to be the lucky recipient in a game of catch was a privilege without peer. For him to allow me a small portion of his time that might have been more profitably spent with the older boys and their secret society was a magnanimous gesture. Whatever he touched, turned to gold. Indeed, he himself was golden. I followed him constantly, never more than a few steps behind. I had to see all that he did, witness all that he would become, all that he would allow me to become. And, in my most delightful memories, share with him the experiences of boyhood. He taught me how to smoke pilfered cigarettes, how to inhale the smoke that would cause my head to spin and my stomach to roll uneasily. He taught me how to bait a fishing hook with the eye of the minnow impaled through the hook’s sharp point. He taught me how to tie a length of thread onto the leg of a June bug and hold on giggling as it flew crazily around our heads. He taught me how to whistle, to swim, to spit, to live. And he taught me other things as well. He taught me degradation, cruelty, and spite.

That summer, the last summer our parents would ever see before their lives were snuffed out in a heap of twisted metal, I was ten, Monty fourteen. Our family was vacationing at Lake Armistead in the North Carolina mountains. There was a girl. Twelve, possibly thirteen years old. Her family rented another cabin on the lake in the summers, and, over the years, our families grew close, socialized. Her parents and ours would sit out on the covered porch and play card games long into the mountain nights. From the yard we could see their cigarettes spinning orange phantom trails in the summer dark, glow and wink out as if with some secret rhythm like fireflies mating. There were cold gin drinks and much slapping of mosquitoes and, as the hour grew late, drunken laughter. Our mother would sleep past noon after one of these nights and not fully recover until well into the next evening. The next card game, the next drink.