Dear Daughter (3 page)

“Not usually.”

“Not ever.”

“I’m not sure that’s necessarily a good thing.” He paused, regrouped, grabbed at his hair again. “You can still change your mind, you know. You can still live a public life. Frankly, the more you try to hide, the more they’ll try to find you, and there’s only so much I can do from my end.”

I tried not to think too hard about what I had to say next.

“Yeah, about that—I was thinking it’s time to tie that end up.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m
crazy
grateful for everything you’ve done, but from here on out—”

His jaw tightened. “You’re saying I’ve outlived my usefulness?”

“Assuming the Fifth Amendment hasn’t changed in the past few weeks, yeah.”

“So that’s just—it? I should’ve known you’d do something like this.”

“Don’t take it personally. It’s not like we’re lovers.”

(I’m not given to kindness, but mercy, maybe, is another matter.)

Noah slammed his briefcase on the table and snapped it open. Seconds later a plastic bag landed on my lap.

“I thought you might like to have this,” he said.

I looked down and fought the urge to cover my eyes. In the bag were all the things I’d brought with me to the police station that morning—and the only personal property I’d retrieved upon my release. I saw a tube of lipstick oozing pink melt, a jumble of eye shadows shattered loose. A bronzer that had separated, two parts fatty slick to one part fecal shimmer. A matchbook, a set of keys, melatonin supplements. Too many credit cards.

“I thought I told you to get rid of this shit,” I said.

“You don’t even know what’s in there.”

“I don’t want it.”

“At least look.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Jane—”

As soon as his hand settled on my shoulder, I knew what was coming, but I was too tired to fight. So I just sat back and turned toward the window, letting him spout a bunch of crap best left to needlepoint pillows and Christmas cards. He ended the same way he always did: “You didn’t do it. I wish you’d believe me.”

And I ended the same way I always did: “But I do believe you.”

This is the other thing you need to know about Noah. He thought believing something could make it true.

JANE JENKINS

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
(Redirected from Janie Jenkins)

Jane Jenkins (born November 22, 1986) is an American socialite, heiress, and convicted murderer.

Early Life
[edit]

Due to her extended family’s long-standing refusal to engage with the press and to documented inconsistencies in Jenkins’s own accounts of her childhood, confirmed details of Jane Jenkins’s early childhood are scarce. The basic facts are known, however: She is the daughter of socialite Marion Elsinger (née Jenkins) and Swiss industrialist Emmerich von Mises, who died shortly after her birth. Jenkins grew up largely in Switzerland and the surrounding areas, and she moved to Los Angeles with her mother and stepfather in August 2001.

Breakthrough
[edit]

Jenkins first rose to prominence with a rumored attachment to troubled British singer Oliver Lawson. Though they never publicly acknowledged their relationship, it was Jenkins who was with Lawson when he was rushed to the hospital after a heroin overdose. Though the couple was never again seen together, Jenkins, with her affinity for adventurous fashion and adventurous men, remained in the public eye and soon became a regular presence in gossip columns and tabloids.

Unusually in Hollywood, Jenkins eschewed TV and film work despite her rising star, preferring, she said in 2002, to dedicate her time to “things that didn’t suck.”

Personal Life
[edit]

Rumored to have been romantically linked to Tobey Maguire, Joshua Jackson, Oliver Lawson, and Jim Adkins of Jimmy Eat World. Had a Lhasa apso named Fuckface.

Arrest and Conviction
[edit]

In the summer of 2003, Jenkins’s mother was found dead in her Beverly Hills home. Jenkins, who had never made a secret of her tumultuous relationship with her mother, was arrested later that day. After a three-month trial and two weeks of jury deliberations, Jenkins—who was tried as an adult—was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. She wore Alexander McQueen to her sentencing hearing.

In September 2013, Jenkins was released from prison as a result of the investigations into the manipulation of evidence by the Los Angeles County Crime Lab. Her current whereabouts are unknown.

CHAPTER THREE

I moved swiftly through the hotel room, ignoring the inconvenient rattle in my chest of something I was unwilling to admit to. I needed to focus: on cleaning and clearing and wiping down doorknobs and counters and handles and pulling up the plastic wrap in the bathroom, which I shoved into my suitcase to dispose of later. I dumped all my old crap into my purse and mixed it in with all the new crap in my purse, hoping I’d soon forget the distinction. When I finished I was foolish enough to catch my breath—and in the silence between one task and the next, my equanimity lost its forward momentum.

I eyed the chair Noah had been sitting in. I was under no illusions about the nature of our relationship. For seven years he’d been the linchpin of my life, and not because he kept me sane, but because together we gave rise to an insanity that was entirely our own.

Now my
folie à deux
had become a
folie à une
.

I pressed a hand to my solar plexus.

Understand that this is how it works with people like me. Self-pity is the sun around which we orbit, the great gravitational force that rules those of us for whom Things Didn’t Quite Turn Out. If we’re lucky, purpose (vengeance, absolution, cookies, not in that order) can keep us from falling in, from burning up, but we’re fooling ourselves if we ever think we’re going to break free.

But that’s why God created Xanax. I slipped half a tab under my tongue and headed for the door. I had a train to catch.

•   •   •

The way I saw it, I figured I had about two weeks before Trace Kessler and the rest of the press tracked me down—and one week before Noah figured it out.

Oh, yes: I was lying to Noah, too.

This, at least, was a relatively recent development. The first time Noah asked me, still idly, where I’d go if I got out, I told him the truth:

“The middle.”

He looked up to the sky at my response, a reflex he refused to shake despite years spent righting wrongs that could have been easily remedied if God weren’t so super lame. “‘The middle,’ as you say, is a pretty big part of the country. Tell me, California Girl, you thinking about any place in particular?” He held up a hand. “And no, you’re not allowed to say ‘one of those big square states.’”

“What about one of those small square states?”

“Janie,” he said, because he knew it would annoy me.

I frowned into the distance as if I didn’t already spend half my day thinking about all the places I’d rather be. “Well,” I said, “a small town would be best, I think.”

“Small towns get CNN, too—”

“Like anyone will expect me to be that far from a Fred Segal.”

“—and news moves fast in a small town. Gossip faster.”

“Not if it’s boring,” I said.

“You couldn’t be boring if you tried.”

“A girl can dream.”

He came to visit two hours after the news broke about the crime lab and all the cases that were going to get thrown out. Within days we’d devised a plan: If I was released, I would go to a town in Wisconsin, close enough to Chicago for Noah to be able to check in on me when he was in town, but far enough away that no one of consequence lived nearby. I would stay in a duplex with vertical blinds, favorably located within walking distance of a Pick ’n Save and a Hobby Lobby. I’d change my name and change my hair and order everything I needed on Amazon. Maybe I’d even go to church, because who’d look for me there?

The hardest part—or so Noah thought—would be getting there.

I knew immediately that I would have to take the train. Noah thought this was a stupid idea, but I pointed out that I wouldn’t have to stop for gas or show ID. That I wouldn’t have to go through security or file a flight plan. That I wouldn’t have to share a toilet. That most people probably didn’t know you even
could
take a train anymore.

But really I wanted to take the train so I could hide in a compartment before hopping off halfway to Chicago without anyone being the wiser. Then I’d pick up a car Noah knew nothing about and drive to a town he’d never heard of. Which is to say, I had absolutely no intention of going to Wisconsin.

Christ, can you even imagine?

•   •   •

Rebecca Parker, I’d decided, was the kind of person whose personality was such a big black hole her entire body was being sucked into it, so before I stepped out into the hallway I pulled myself into what I thought of as Queen Wallflower pose: rolled-in shoulders, downcast eyes, pigeoned toes. I pulled my hair in front of my face and let a strand or two stick to my lips.

I opened the door and stepped out.

Showti—

I slapped a hand over my mouth and spun around. I made it to the bathroom just in time to throw up all four donuts and the undigested remnants of the previous night’s salsa picante chicken noodles.

Strangers. I was going to have to see strangers. And any one of them could be paparazzi. Any one of them could be Trace Kessler. Any one of them might want me dead.

This is another thing I kept from Noah: the death threats.

When I was in prison I received Himalayan mountains of mail, and because there were times when I wasn’t allowed to have anything else to read, I remember many of the letters by heart. There were a few from the fans:

Dear Janie,

I know you didn’t do it!

There were a few from the haters:

Dear Janie,

I know you did do it!

But mostly there were a hundred thousand variations on:

Dear Janie,

Wanna fuck?

Then there were the not-so-nice ones, the ones that described just how much I deserved to be punished for what I had done, that described in loving detail how I’d scream when my throat was slit/face pummeled/body violated—letters that shouldn’t have even been delivered to me, but I guess I had some haters in the mail room, too. Even one of these letters would have been too much, but I got about eight or nine a month. Trace Kessler sent one each week, without fail. I’ll give him this, though: He was the best speller of the bunch.

So you see, the paparazzi was far from the greatest of my worries. At least the press wanted my mouth for what it could say.

I wiped my eyes and nose with my sleeve, grabbed my suitcase, and headed for the door.

On my fourth attempt, I actually managed to make it out of the hotel.

It was a mild day, and the walk to the train station took just fifteen minutes, but by the time I arrived my chest was heaving and my hands were so cold they didn’t even register on the ticketing kiosk’s touch screen. My pulse didn’t settle into a regular rhythm until I opened the door to my compartment—something called a superliner bedroom, which sounds much grander than it was. The room smelled of carpet cleaner and was drowning in branded royal blue, but I liked the little den. It was admirably nimble, going from living room to dining room to bedroom with the press of a switch, the tug of a strap. I wished I were half as versatile.

I sat down and ran a hand over an armrest. The upholstery was so rough it could’ve doubled as a loofah. Silver linings.

The train pulled past the city limits and began to pick up speed. I looked out the window, to the southeast, and squinted, wondering if I could see Folsom Prison from this distance. I’d heard it wasn’t so bad these days—they were even opening up a women’s facility sometime soon. I would’ve loved to have been transferred to a place like that, to a place with some
history
, but I hadn’t been eligible then. Minimum- and medium-security only, ladies.

I propped up my chin with my hand.
If I committed a minor felony right now, is that where I’d get to go?

The train jolted forward; behind me, the compartment door crashed open. My head spun around, my hand dropped and curled into a fist, but the hall was empty. I waited a moment, ears perked. Nothing. I reached over to close the door—but it just slid open again.
Dammit
: The latch was broken. I pushed the door shut and tried to jiggle the latch back into place.

Someone knocked. I froze.

“Hello?” A man’s voice, the jolly resonance of the hospitality industry. The porter, if I had to guess.

“Yes?” I said, bracing my legs behind me to secure the door.

There was a pause, then, “I was wondering if you want—”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Another pause. “Well, you let me know if there’s anything you need.”

Fat chance.
“Will do!”

I pressed my ear against the door until I was sure he was gone. Then I pulled the cuffs of my cardigan over my hands and wiped down the handle as best I could.

I gave the door a dirty look before retreating to the forward-facing seat. It was another eighteen hours to Omaha, but no matter how tired I was I couldn’t let myself fall asleep, not when I was so exposed. I reached into my bag to grab the only book I had—a Bible I’d taken, perversely, from the hotel nightstand. But then I changed my mind and drew back. The Old Testament was too familiar; the New Testament just got me down.