The Tears of Dark Water (42 page)

Vanessa looked around at the faces in the gallery and smoothed her skirt to keep her hands from fidgeting. In contrast to the last hearing, the media were largely absent. She recognized a couple of journalists along with Agents Hewitt and Escobido from the FBI, but she didn’t see any of the network reporters who had tried to get a statement from her after the arraignment. The rest of the spectators looked like lawyers and government officials—a potpourri of dark suits and self-important expressions.

Then there was Ismail. Every time she saw him she felt the wound again, and the hatred. She stared at the back of his head, drilling holes in his skull, as if she might reach into his brain and demand answers:
Why? Why did you murder my husband? Why did you try to kill my son?
As the seconds passed, her questions stirred the cauldron of her rage.
Your time is coming. They’re going to bury you in an unmarked grave.

“All rise!” the law clerk intoned, his gavel echoing in the vaulted chamber.

Vanessa stood with Curtis as Judge McKenzie ascended to the bench. She looked over her glasses at the attorneys. “Counsel, I’ve read your motions and memoranda. I will rule on the motions to dismiss on the briefs. With the time we have, I’d like to discuss the scope of discovery. Ms. Derrick?”

Vanessa watched as Megan walked to the podium. Under any circumstances, the trial would have been surreal. But Megan’s decision to defend Ismail against the crime her brother had tried so hard to prevent was nothing short of bizarre. Whose side was she on?

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Megan began, her diction crisp and her voice clear. “This case presents the Court with a difficult dilemma. Is our justice system beholden primarily to the interests of national security, or are we beholden to the truth? The government has been generous in its disclosure of all unclassified information. We now have a fairly good bird’s-eye view of what happened before and after the shooting. But there is a whole universe of classified information they have kept from us, secrets that relate to the ‘why’ of what happened—the decisions made by the government at all levels, including the special-operations forces. The United States has placed the entire blame for this tragedy on the shoulders of a twenty-year-old man. They are asking this Court to impose the ultimate penalty. The least they can do is allow their own actions to be scrutinized.”

The judge frowned. “The obligation of this Court is to assess whether the government can prove beyond a reasonable doubt that your client committed the crimes alleged. We are not in the business of apportioning blame. What is the exculpatory value of the classified information?”

Megan held out her hands. “I won’t know it until I see it, Your Honor. All I know is that seven Somalis were holding two Americans hostage on the sailboat. My client negotiated with the Parker family to pay a ransom in exchange for the release of the hostages. The ransom was, in fact, paid. The government agreed to let the Somalis go per their agreement with the family. Then, minutes later, the shooting started. What I want to know is why? The other Somalis have made allegations about my client’s motives. But their story doesn’t square with the events. What’s missing from the picture is what the Navy did immediately before the shooting. What decisions were made in the chain of command? And what actions were taken in response to those decisions? If the government precipitated the violence, the jury needs to know that when they assess my client’s state of mind.”

“Your Honor,” interjected Clyde Barrington, “the government is not on trial here.”

“You’re quite right,” the judge affirmed. “Still, Ms. Derrick has a point.”

As the lawyers continued to spar, Vanessa watched them in disgust. The elaborate pageantry of the legal system seemed absurd in light of the simplicity of the crime. What did it matter what the Navy did or neglected to do, or what Ismail was thinking when he pulled the trigger? All that mattered were the bullets that shredded the bodies of the two people she was closest to in the world. She stared at Ismail again.
You did this to them, you son of a bitch! You and no one else!

She felt a sudden burning in her throat, like she was about to vomit. She stood up and walked quickly out of the courtroom, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor. By the time she reached the restroom, the bile had stopped churning, but her heart continued to race. She sat down in a toilet stall and closed her eyes to block out the light, taking deep breaths until the sensation passed.
I don’t think I can take five more months of this
, she thought.

After a while, she left the restroom and walked to the window at the end of the hall, looking out over the Norfolk skyline. She saw her reflection in the glass, the drawn look in her eyes. Before long, she heard footsteps behind her.

“Are you all right?” Curtis asked.

“I’m okay,” she managed.

He stood there for a moment in silence, then spoke with a depth of feeling she had never heard before. “We’re very different people, Vanessa. But my heart is broken, too.”

It was her instinct to push him away, not to let him near the bloody mess of her pain. She had been that way since childhood, keeping people at bay. Why let them in when they were almost always a disappointment? But something in Curtis’s tone drew her into the light. She turned around and saw that his arms were open to her. She hesitated, searching his face, and then stepped into his embrace. The empathy she felt was as inviting as it was unexpected. It wouldn’t last—nothing ever did.

But, for a moment at least, she didn’t have to stand on her own.

That afternoon, after they returned from the hearing, Vanessa took a drive into Annapolis. Quentin was working on strength exercises with his physical therapist—an event that usually sparked anger in him, both irrational and justified—and she needed space to cleanse her mind. She parked in the garage off Main Street and walked down the hill to the docks. A late-winter chill was in the air, but the clouds had parted and sunlight was streaming through.

She bought a latte from City Dock Coffee and followed Randall Street to the Naval Academy. She entered the campus by the main gate and strolled along King George Street to the river. Just beyond the Visitors’ Center was a small patch of green space with a brick promenade. She took a seat on one of the benches and closed her eyes, allowing the sun to suffuse her skin with warmth.

Her heart was full of bitter sludge. She could feel it sloshing around inside, choking her with its stench. She hated the venom almost as much as she hated Ismail. In spite of everything the world had thrown at her, she had always managed to stay positive, find a goal, and fixate on it until the past disappeared around the bend. But the strategy wouldn’t work this time. She had no ambitions within reach. She couldn’t bring Quentin back if he wouldn’t talk to her. She couldn’t redeem her marriage; Daniel was gone. She had never felt so tormented, so irredeemably lost.

It was then that she had an idea. She resisted it at first, thinking up all manner of excuses why it wouldn’t accomplish anything. But the more she thought about it, the more it took root in her. It wasn’t a panacea, but it was a place to start.

She left the Naval Academy and walked briskly around the circle. She saw the tall spire of the church in the distance. She hadn’t been to mass since the funeral. She hadn’t wanted to face the incessant questions, the endless condolences. It was easier just to stay away. Besides, she had never been much of a Catholic. She had converted when she married Daniel, but she had never met God in church. She attended mass because it was part of her routine. Confession, on the other hand, she had grown to cherish. It was a catharsis she now craved.

The door of the church was open when she tried it. She entered the sanctuary and looked around for one of the priests. She saw Father Minoli by the altar, tending to a display of votive candles. He was a gentle old fellow with a piercing wit and a deep reservoir of wisdom. He was also a long-time friend of the family and had presided over Daniel’s funeral. She walked softly up the aisle beneath the Gothic arches and the starry sky and waited until he noticed her.

“Ah, Vanessa,” he said, turning around. “It’s so good to see you. How is Quentin?”

She looked into his kind eyes, framed by bushy eyebrows. “He’s not doing so well,” she replied, surprising herself with her transparency.

The priest looked at her with compassion. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Your mother-in-law told me the transition home has been rough.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I don’t mean to bother you, but do you have time for a confession?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m always here for you.”

She went to the confessional and took a seat in the box while the priest settled in on the other side of the partition. She organized her thoughts and crossed herself: “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, my last confession was in October before . . . all of this happened.”

She didn’t make it any further before the tears came.
Pull yourself together
, she commanded, exhausted of crying.
This is embarrassing.
But the sorrow refused to abate. For a moment she considered abandoning the confessional, but she wasn’t a stranger here. She could never run far enough. With no place else to go, she spoke the truth.

“I’ve told this to no one, but I feel wrath in my heart. I feel it when I see the man who killed Daniel. I feel it when Quentin struggles to find the right words, when he stares out at the river at the boat he used to sail, when I see the sadness in his eyes. I’m afraid, Father. I don’t know what will become of him. I feel despair. I don’t know where to go for hope.”

When she fell silent, she wiped her eyes and waited for the priest to respond. As the seconds multiplied, she wondered if he was asleep. Then she heard the whisper of his voice and realized he was praying. In time, he delivered his exhortation.

“My daughter, you are not alone. Remember our Blessed Mother who watched her son suffer as you have watched Quentin. Consider the path she walked to forgive those who took his life. Remember the redemption that came about. And have faith that redemption is possible for Quentin and for you, however unlikely it may seem.”

Father Minoli’s words hit Vanessa in the gut. They were right and wrong at the same time. She mouthed the contrition, received the absolution, and left the church through the back entrance, walking down the path to the courtyard. The gardens were aglow in the afternoon sunlight. She strolled beneath the bare trees and wrestled with herself. She wanted redemption but not forgiveness. Mary was a saint. What she had accomplished wasn’t possible for mere mortals.

The compromise came to Vanessa suddenly. It was possible that she could have one without the other. At least, as Yvonne said, it was worth a try. She checked her watch. It was morning in Melbourne. Ariadne would be awake.

She took out her iPhone and placed the call.

Yasmin

Middle Juba, Somalia

March 8, 2012

The Juba was a ghost snake in the night, the ripples in the moving water coruscating in the light of the moon like the scales of a black mamba. It was long after midnight, and the village was as quiet as the sky. The only sounds Yasmin could hear were the susurrations of the river, the chirping of frogs, and the lonesome calls of a nightjar somewhere in the black distance.

She stooped at the river’s edge and filled her jug with fresh water, her thoughts alternating between worry and prayer. Fatuma had been in labor now for more than two and a half days, and the baby had yet to crown. She was a hardy young woman, the daughter of desert nomads, but even she had limits, and she was beginning to fade. Jamaad was at her bedside along with a midwife named Fiido from the village. Yasmin had offered to serve as Fiido’s assistant. She was beyond exhausted, but her comfort was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was keeping Fatuma and the child alive.

She walked quickly through the gate—unlocked for three nights now—and crossed the yard to the house. Fatuma was laboring in the living room surrounded by lanterns and incense, the mattress beneath her stained dark with blood. Yasmin placed the water beside Fiido, who dipped a towel into it and blotted Fatuma’s forehead. The girl was lying on her side in the fetal position, her body trembling with muscle spasms, her hands clutching at her distended belly.

Yasmin sat down beside Jamaad and looked at Fatuma. The suffering in the girl’s eyes was transparent. In the first twenty-fours hours, she had moved about and breathed with rhythm and talked through the pain like any mother about to give birth. By sunset on the second day, however, her movements had slowed, her eyes had lost focus, and her contractions had diminished until they vanished altogether. There was no question in Yasmin’s mind. The baby’s head was too large for the birth canal. They needed to get Fatuma to a hospital immediately. But Jamaad wouldn’t hear of it. She had rejected the idea as soon as Yasmin raised it, heckling her for her lack of faith. “The doctor’s knife would burn her womb,” she had said. “God will bring the child when he is ready.”

But the child didn’t come. As the hours passed and darkness gave way to dawn, Fatuma stopped moving entirely. Yasmin felt the anger building inside of her. She wasn’t trained in medicine, but Khadija had taught her all about childbirth, even inviting her to observe a delivery at the hospital in Medina. Yasmin had paid careful attention when Fiido performed the episiotomy, and she had seen the mistake. The incision Fiido made in Fatuma’s perineum was clumsy and blunt, neither properly placed nor large enough to widen the cervix, not with all the scar tissue left over from Fatuma’s circumcision. Yasmin wanted to say something about the scar tissue, to suggest a second cut with a different placement, but she knew Fiido wouldn’t listen to her, and neither would Jamaad.