Perfect Lies (31 page)

“I’d never been there before so it’s hard for me to say. But Ethan himself was odd enough. Emotionally raw, everything exposed. He seemed intent on truth-telling now that he was facing his demons, I suppose. He told me some interesting things….”

Hannah looked down at her coffee and played with her spoon, running a finger around the lip of the silver oval.

“He told me that he’d never really been able to love anything deeply but his work. Or anyone—Lark, the girls, all those women. Me. That he kept looking and looking, but it, she, whatever—was always out of reach. Except the art. I really do think he was having some kind of breakdown. He called himself a monster.”

Hannah signaled for the check.

“Was there anything else? How did you leave things with him?”

“You might as well know. He told me it was over between the two of us, as well. He said we were ‘played out'—what an apt way of putting it. All we’d been doing anyway was playing when you think about it. Pretending, and having some fun, and—acting, really. He said he was done with all that now. That he wanted to start being real, stop all the games. So sad when you think about it. Considering how soon after that the games actually did stop.”

“Did you mention all of this to the police?” Meg asked.

“That Ethan dumped me?” Hannah replied. “No, darling, I did not. They made me so nervous with all their questions. I’m not good at dealing with authority to start with. And then, they were so suspicious about my being in Red River in the first place that morning. I don’t think they believed me when I explained that I drove up behind Ethan to make him feel safe—I think they thought I was stalking him or something. This whole thing has made me jittery. I’ve even hired a lawyer.” Hannah saw Meg’s expression and intercepted her next question.

“No, I didn’t murder Ethan. The day I kill a man because he’s stopped loving me is, I can assure you, the day I kill myself.”

M
eg didn’t know exactly what to expect at the hearing in Montville, but it certainly wasn’t this. A small crowd of protesters, cordoned off by metal barricades and watched by two police officers, had gathered to the left of the courthouse steps. They were chanting something that Meg couldn’t make out as Hannah drove up the curving drive. Their hand-lettered posters carried slogans: KEEP OUR TOWNS SAFE and STOP TEENAGE VIOLENCE.

“Oh, no, she has to go!” was what they were shouting, Meg realized, as Hannah pulled up behind an empty school bus. Meg recognized Paula Yoder and several other mothers from Red River. There were perhaps thirty people altogether, most of them women.

“Do you mind if I don’t go in?” Hannah said, turning to Meg. “I really don’t feel like getting into the middle of all this. Or antagonizing Lark—for purely selfish business reasons.”

“I understand,” Meg said, noticing two photographers talking to each other across from the main entrance. A local news van was parked nearby. “But you don’t mind waiting? I’ve no idea how long this is going to take.”

“I’ll be fine. So long as I don’t have to talk to any more policemen,” Hannah said, and then added as Meg started to climb out of the car, “Good luck.”

Luck was not all she needed, Meg decided, as she started up the steps. A little chain mail would help. Or a bulletproof vest.

“Shame on you, Meg Hardwick!” Paula Yoder cried when she spotted her. Meg could hear the rapid clicking of cameras behind her. Hurrying now, she pushed against one of the heavy front doors and entered the stately lobby of the courthouse. There was a crowd here, as well, and she quickly scanned the faces, trying to find a friendly one. Peter Boardman had told her he’d be waiting for her near the front entrance; she’d know it was him by the dark blue bow tie he’d be wearing. But it was his calming, grandfatherly voice that she recognized first.

“You must be Meg,” Boardman said, taking her elbow. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man in his early sixties with thinning sandy hair and half-glasses. His eyes were a penetrating blue. “Let’s get out of this zoo. We should be starting any minute now.”

He guided her through the crowd, down the corridor to the main courtroom, a lovely old two-story wood-paneled room with high, bottle-green glass windows. The afternoon light streamed into the room, casting a pale green sheen. Meg spotted Lark immediately, seated between Francine and Janine. Francine whispered something to Lark, who glanced in Meg’s direction, shook her head slowly and sadly, and then purposely turned away from her.

“There’s Arthur Pearson, the district attorney,” Boardman said to Meg, hoping to distract her. He pointed to a small, dapper man who was deep in conversation with two assistants—one male, one female—both of whom towered over him. Pearson had a head of black hair so full and perfectly groomed that Meg suspected it was a toupee.

“We’re in luck, by the way,” Boardman went on, speaking to Meg as though they’d known each other for years. There was something about his voice and manner that made Meg feel immediately at ease—and grateful that Abe had steered Lucinda to him. “I don’t think Judge Marin has taken kindly to Pearson’s publicity tactics.” Boardman brought her forward to one of the front rows where Lucinda, free of makeup and looking wan, sat next to a court officer.

“Did he arrange for that little welcoming committee outside?” Meg asked, smiling at Lucinda. Someone, probably Boardman, had wisely suggested that Lucinda remove her nose ring. Only a few streaks were left of Lucinda’s red hair dye and her new shorter haircut with its feathery bangs gave her face a waifish look. Lucinda, who once struck such a rebellious, in-your-face pose, seemed to cower in her seat. She looked young and vulnerable—and very frightened.

“I don’t know,” Boardman said. “But the local papers have certainly been giving glowing reviews of his crackerjack work on this case. I‘ve heard rumors that he’s running for state senate next year. And that’s more good news for us. The judge hates politics in the courtroom.”

“Hey, Luce,” Meg said, as the teenager turned around, stood, and impulsively enveloped Meg in a grateful hug. Meg couldn’t bear to glance over at Lark’s side of the room, though she sensed now that everyone on that side of the aisle was watching her.

The judge, a woman in her sixties with a brisk, no-nonsense manner, took her place on the bench and, leaving Meg to sit behind Lucinda, Boardman went up to consult with her and the D.A. After a brief discussion, which involved a lot of head-shaking on Pearson’s part, the proceedings began.

“You honor,” Pearson addressed the bench. He had a big voice for such a small man—a carrying baritone that was fulsome with self-assurance. “What we have here is a clear-cut case of homicide. The defendant was found in actual possession of the instrument that has been identified as the murder weapon. She was at the crime scene at the time of death fixed by the coroner. She was arrested in a drunken stupor. She admits that she was too ‘out of it’ to even now be able to account for herself during the time of the murder. Over the weeks I‘ve been investigating this case I‘ve learned that this deeply troubled and difficult young woman—”

“Counselor,” the judge said, interrupting Pearson, “kindly confine your observations about the suspect’s character to facts, not speculation.”

“Certainly,” Pearson said with a smile, nodding his head and glancing down at one of the index cards he was holding. “The suspect has been truant at the local high school for a total of ten days this past semester. She has been suspected of defacing county property and causing a public disturbance—”

“Does she have an arrest record, counselor?”

“Not per se, your honor—” Pearson began, but the judge cut him off.

“I suggest we stick to the crime in question, which seems to me complicated and volatile enough. Truancy can wait for another day.”

There was a titter across the courtroom which, more than any reprimand from the judge, seemed to upset the D.A.'s composure. He took a moment to consult with his two assistants before concluding in a forceful and self-righteous tone, “I believe that this is an open-and-shut case of murder in the second degree. I hold that the defendant is a danger to society and to herself. I request that she be remanded without bail, pending a grand jury presentation.”

Meg didn’t know when she’d put her hand on Lucinda’s shoulder but, as the D.A. finished his statement with a hard stare at Lucinda, she felt the teenager start to tremble. Meg leaned toward her and whispered, “It’s going to be okay. The judge doesn’t like him. Just keep it together.”

Compared to Pearson’s polished and obviously prepared delivery, Boardman’s statement was low-key and conversational.

“I happen to agree with the D.A.—this
is
an open-and-shut case of homicide. Who killed Ethan McGowan, though? In my opinion, that’s a question that remains unanswered by any of the facts we’ve managed to gather thus far. There were no eyewitnesses. The circumstantial evidence that we all know about—the murder weapon in the defendant’s hands, her proximity in time and place to the murder—can be fairly easily explained away.

“I’m not suggesting that the county is wrong in pursuing the question of Lucinda’s presence in the studio that morning. We all have questions about it, including Lucinda, who cannot remember what happened. And why is that?”

Boardman had been strolling back and forth in front of the bench as he spoke, glancing at Judge Marin, looking out across the courtroom of spectators, nodding at the D.A. and Lark in a gently reasoning way. Now he turned and spoke to Lucinda, “Yes, she was drunk. And she was stoned. She was a seventeen-year-old attempting to deal with the kind of emotional firestorm even the most experienced adult shouldn’t have to face. She was trying to cope with betrayal—at the very center of her life—and, yes, she was unable to. So she anesthetized herself, hoping to make herself stronger. But it didn’t work. She failed at playing an adult, of coping like an adult. And now she’s admitting to us that she can’t remember what happened that morning in the studio.

“Let me tell you something: I don’t believe Lucinda killed her stepfather. But, even if she had—which, I repeat, I do not believe is the case—she would have done so under extreme emotional circumstances and in probable self-defense. I’m not going to go into the murder victim’s well-known reputation in the town, but—”

“I’d take your own good advice there,” Judge Marin interjected. “I’d move your presentation along, please.”

Boardman nodded at her. “Exactly. That’s for a later discussion. I do not wish to introduce more rumors and innuendo into a case that is already loaded with hearsay. The facts are these: There were no eyewitnesses. The evidence is purely circumstantial and can be interpreted many different ways. And Lucinda McGowan had been put through hell for long enough. She is a danger to no one, she has no arrest record. Her only crime, if it is a crime, is that she was unable to shoulder an adult’s burdens at a most unfortunate time and place.”

Meg could feel Lucinda’s shoulders shaking. Lucinda began to cry, her head bowed.

“Look up now, Luce,” Meg said when she saw that the judge had asked Pearson and Boardman to consult with her. “Look the judge in the eye.”

Lucinda dabbed quickly at her face and blew her nose, but then straightened up and did as Meg instructed her. Lucinda’s cheeks were blotchy, her bangs damp and in disarray. But her look was direct and undefiant.

The discussion was long and obviously heated, and it was clear to those who watched closely, as Meg did, that the D.A. was losing an important argument with Judge Marin—and losing it badly. His face reddened with anger, his gestures grew cockier—hands on the hips, shoulders back, foot tapping. Finally, with an irritated wave of the hand, the discussion was ended by the judge.

“This is a court of law,” Judge Marin said slowly, looking from Lark to the D.A. and then out across the room. “It is a place where we try to arrive at the truth—and then dispense judgment. We’re conducting a preliminary hearing today. That’s all it is. And yet, it seems to me, far too many people have walked into this courtroom this afternoon with their minds made up and their judgments rendered. There are protesters outside already turning this case into a platform for other agendas. I will have
no
one,” and here the judge glared at Pearson, “using this terribly sad and difficult situation for his or her own purposes. My cases are tried in the court of law—never the court of public opinion.”

The room was hushed as the judge added briskly, “I’m setting the bail at one hundred thousand dollars and I’m allowing the suspect to be released into the care of a responsible adult who resides in Manhattan. I’m granting the D.A.'s request that the suspect undergo a Section 730 psychiatric examination—and the defense has agreed to pursue appropriate counseling for his client in the city, subject to my approval. You will all be notified of the next court date by mail.”

They weren’t supposed to meet. Boardman had suggested that he take Lucinda with him to the back court offices while he arranged the bail by phone with a local bondsman. Meg was to find Hannah and have her pull the car up to the small personnel-only parking area behind the courthouse. Lucinda and Meg were meant to slip away quietly and without notice. But, as Meg was hurrying down the courthouse steps she ran into Lark and Francine coming down from the other door.

“You’re actually taking her in?” Lark demanded, her voice breathy with anger.

“Lark, listen—” Meg tried to sound reasonable, “She has no place else to go.”

“Oh yes she does. She can go straight to hell,” Lark said.

Francine squeezed Lark’s elbow. “Reporters are watching, Lark,” she whispered. “You don’t want to make a scene.”

“Yes, I do. I have a right to start a riot as far as I’m concerned,” Lark said, brushing Francine off and turning to Meg. “I can’t believe—I just cannot believe—that you’re actually taking that little slut into your apartment. That you put up bail for her. That you are comforting her! I saw you put your arm around her—Jesus! It made me want to get sick—right there. How can you do this? You, Meg! After everything we’ve been through—a whole life together—how can you choose her, that viper, over me?”