In the Company of Liars (5 page)

I've never known anyone like you,” he told her, and she wanted to say the same thing to him. He came up behind her, cupped a hand around her throat, ran the other hand lazily up the side of her body, caressed her stomach. She felt a chill, a welcome chill, closed her eyes and let him unbutton her blouse, bring his lips to the back of her neck, bring his hands to her breasts.

“There are things you don't know, Allison,” he told her later.

And The Look. The single defining moment, at that cocktail party only days before his death. The expression of utter wanting on his face, fixating on her, imagining unspeakable acts, as he stood among others at the party, unable to move his eyes off her—

“Shit,” Allison says, looking down at her hand. The wineglass has shattered in her grip. She looks at the pieces before taking note of the two shards stuck into her palm. Searing pain as she pulls the glass out, unable to look,
wincing, cursing herself. She walks, palm up, to the sink and runs cold water over her hand. It's everywhere, blood on her nightshirt, the floor, but it's all she can do to wrap a towel around her hand. Then she loses her balance and falls to the floor hard.

“Get a grip, Allison,” she mumbles. She sits up, rests her head against the cabinet below the sink, and holds her breath.

Bring Sam to me just one more time. Defy logic, the laws of nature, and bring him back to me just this once.

She hears her alarm clock going off upstairs. It automatically resets, and she forgot to deactivate it, for the second day in a row. Her mind has been like that recently, uncannily sharp and focused on the minutiae of her case, even the big picture, but inattentive to many of the general details of everyday living.

She didn't sleep. Only about four hours over the last two days. She's been in the kitchen since midnight, nursing a glass of wine and staring into the emptiness of her backyard. She watched the sky lighten, watched the first rays of the day skitter across the yard, furious at how casually everything was passing her by.

She gets back to her feet and heads outside. She walks through the living room, opens the back door, and the house alarm goes off, blending with the sounds of the clock alarm upstairs.

She finds the alarm pad, deactivates it, and fights a bout of nausea. She heads outside and is unprepared for the cold air but takes it in, embraces the discomfort, wraps her arms around herself and watches the day begin.

“You should see this,” she says. “It's beautiful.”

Maybe he
can
see it. Maybe he's looking down on her, smiling with that assurance, winking at her, blowing her a kiss. She is religious, but it's been a while. Mat was never much for church so she fell out of practice. She feels hypocritical but she finds herself pleading.

Just let me hear your voice. Just once.

Tell me you forgive me.

Tell me you love me.

Today is Mother's Day, a holiday that will not be celebrated by the Pagone family this year. There are obvious reasons. Having the family to this home is out of the question. The house is like a prison both literally and figuratively. Nor is there any conceivable reason for celebrating anything today.

Good reasons, both of them. But the truth is that Allison can't summon the strength for a façade, anyway. Not another one.

In a little while she finds that the grocery store is not as busy as it typically would be on a Sunday. Before the recent turn of events, Allison had frequented an upscale grocer, not because of its exclusivity, but because it was the only store in this part of the city with some of the exotic ingredients she often sought. And they knew her, because she shopped often, preferring fresh food. But since her arrest, she has noticed the discomfort in virtually every acquaintance. The averted glances, the awkward silences. It's gotten to the point where she avoids them as much as they avoid her. So now she shops at a chain store, where she is relatively unknown. Say that much for the city. One in a million is actually an understatement. It provides her relative freedom.

Very relative. She has to stay within five miles of her home at all times, a condition of her bond. She had to get permission to get a tire changed last week.

She carries a small basket and places a few vegetables in it. She eats meat, used to love it, but these days the idea of being a carnivore seems ironic. She walks past the bakery, past the butcher, toward the drugstore. There is a small coffee shop in the corner, the grocery chain's attempt at modernization. She finds Larry Evans reading a newspaper at a small table. Two steaming paper cups of black coffee
sit on the table. He looks over his glasses at her and smiles. She recognizes it for what it is, not a happy-go-lucky grin but an attempt at warmth. Not very many people smile at Allison Pagone these days.

“How you holding up?” he asks.

She puts down the groceries and sits across from him. “How do I look like I'm holding up?”

He sets down the newspaper. “Honestly?”

She sighs. “Don't start lying to me now, Larry. You're the only one I can trust.”

“You look tired. Did you sleep at all?”

He's being honest, if not entirely forthcoming; he is omitting a few other adjectives. Allison has forced herself to look in the mirror lately. She has seen the damage.

Larry flicks at his hair. He is dishwater blond, has a rugged, lined face. He has a good-sized frame, not a body-builder but a guy who keeps in shape. He hasn't shaved today; his facial hair is darker than the hair on top of his head. She would probably find him handsome under other circumstances—very, very different circumstances.

She takes a sip of the coffee, steaming hot on her tongue. Something nutty, she assumes. Cinnamon hazelnut, she guesses, then looks over at the small chalkboard next to the counter, where the coffee of the day is revealed in colored chalk:
Cinn-ful Walnut
. Clever.

“You look like someone who's conceding defeat,” he says. “And I don't like that. I don't get it, Allison. I just don't get you.”

“What's not to get? I'm going to be convicted.” She averts her eyes. She looks at the other shoppers, immediately envying their carefree lives. An employee is pushing turkey sausage, pierced with toothpicks, on shoppers. The next aisle down, it's hummus, about ten different kinds offered with pita chips. Little kids hanging on carts, women moving seriously through the aisles. They don't know
anything about serious. She would change places with any of them.

“That doesn't have to—”

“Oh, don't deny it, Larry. Please,” she adds, more softly.

He reaches for her, then recoils. “What happened to your hand?”

Allison holds up her right hand, wrapped in gauze. “Lost a fight with a wineglass.”

Larry peers into her eyes. “You sure you're okay?”

She nods. “I'll be fine as long as you don't tell me I'm going to win my case.”

Larry looks away, exhales with disgust. “Did you even show your lawyer what I found?” he asks. “Did you think at all about all that stuff I found? You show that to a judge and you'll be acquitted—”

“Look.” Allison scoots her chair from the table, holds her hands up. “Look. I'm not going to debate you, Larry. Okay?”

Larry watches her. She can only imagine the package she's presenting today. She showered before coming but she's still a train wreck in every way. She almost caused an accident on the way to this store. Her eyes are heavy from sleep deprivation and worry. Her stomach is in knots, having been deprived of food for more than twenty-four hours.

“Please don't tell me that things look grand,” she says. “They have me all over Sam's house. They have that damn alibi. And they have me, the day before, barging into his office like some deranged maniac—”

She stops herself as Larry's look softens.

“Kind of like now,” she says. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, it's okay.” Larry has played the advocate in this relationship. Originally a biographer, now a reporter bent on showing that Allison did not kill Sam Dillon. But he has always been good about this. As much as he has tried to help Allison's defense, shown an unwavering belief
in her cause, fought his exasperation at her unwillingness to use his assistance—always, he has deferred to her, the woman on trial for her life.

“You've tried to help me, Larry. I know that. And I hope I've given you enough material back.”

“You've been great.”

“I don't know about great, but—” She runs her hands over her face. “The book you're writing, Larry? Please go easy on my family. That's what I came here to ask.”

Larry's smile is eclipsed, his expression hardening just like that. “You want me to be quiet about what I know.”

“Larry, this book is going to sell no matter what. ‘By Allison Pagone, as told to Larry Evans.' You'll get a great print run. Just stick to the basics. You don't need the sensationalist stuff.”

“So?” He opens his hands. “You want me to back off what I know.”

“You don't ‘know' anything, Larry.”

Larry Evans shifts in his chair, directs a finger at the table. “I know you didn't kill Sam Dillon,” he says.

“Stop saying that. You don't know that.”

“Then I
believe
it. And I think you're protecting someone.”

Allison looks around helplessly. She recognizes her lack of leverage.

“What's happened?” he asks. “Where'd the fighter go? Why are you giving up all of a sudden? What's happened since the last time I talked to you, that now you're acting so resigned to defeat?”

She looks into his eyes briefly. He is challenging her. But she will not tell him.

“Promise me you'll be fair to my family.” She recognizes that, from Larry's perspective, she has no bargaining position here. She will not be able to enforce any promise. Allison gets to her feet, takes a moment to gain her equilibrium. She picks up the basket of vegetables, stares at them as if they are hazardous materials, and drops the basket.

“Tell me what happened,” Larry pleads. “Something's happened. I can tell. New evidence or something?”

“Something,” she says to him. “Look—thanks for everything. For being there.”

Larry reaches for her hand. “Allison, tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“I can't tell you.” She withdraws her hand. “I—I can't.”

She goes home, the only place she is allowed to go. The dry cleaner's is a permissible stop as well, but it's closed on Sundays, and she has no cleaning there, anyway. She sits outside on her patio, looking over her garden, at the rusted play-set where Jessica used to swing and slide and climb with such energy and unmitigated delight, and remembers the vicarious enjoyment she derived from her daughter's simplest acts.

She thinks of Sam Dillon. One evening in particular, mid-January of this year. Dinner, his idea, at a little Italian place, a real hole in the wall with the most perfect garlic bread she'd ever tasted. A small room with ten tables, a red-checkered tablecloth, the smells of olive oil and sausage and garlic mingling. She remembers the way he looked at her.

There are things you don't know
, he said to her.

She leaves the patio and takes the phone in the living room. She drops onto the couch and dials the numbers.

“Mat, it's me.”

“What's going on? How are you?”

“I'll tell you how I am,” she says. “I got a visit yesterday from the FBI. That's how I am.”

“The FBI? They came to your—”

“Listen to me, Mat. Okay? Just listen, don't talk.”

They didn't used to speak to each other like this, but it's one of the few perks of being charged with capital murder, lots of freedom with your emotions.

“Do not talk to them under any circumstances,” she says. “If they try to make a deal with you, don't do it. Do
not even say hello to them. Don't even let them in. Just yell ‘Fifth Amendment' from behind the door.”

“With me?” Mat asks. “They're going to talk to
me
?”

“They wanted to talk about you. They wanted to talk about Divalpro. Just let me take care of this. Don't you dare talk to them.”

“Ally?” Mat Pagone, her ex-husband, sounds out of breath. “Did you talk to them? About—that?”

“No, and I'm not going to. And neither are you. Just keep your mouth shut and remember one thing, okay?”

“What's that?”

“Your daughter needs at least one parent.” She hangs up the phone and holds her breath.

A
llison is awake, in the fetal position, when the alarm surprises her at six in the morning. She probably managed a few fitful hours in there somewhere, but it feels like she hasn't slept at all. It's not the lack of rest but the sense that time has accelerated from last night to this morning. Everything seems to have quickened these last few weeks. Time flies when you want it to stop.

Yes, she did sleep, because she dreamt. She spoke to Sam. They were in his bed. Allison was saying to him,
Can you believe they think I killed you?

She stretches, considers going for a jog but opts for coffee instead. She makes her own, with an antique percolator she bought a year ago that reminded her of the coffee in Tuscany. There was a time when she waited anxiously for the brew to be ready, when she was eager to move on with her day. These days, there is little to look forward to. She will drink her coffee, listen to classical music, go on the internet later. Sometimes she even reads the stuff about
herself. Sometimes she will check out the website devoted to her case,
freeallison.com
, not for the support—they have no reason to think she's innocent, they're simply capitalizing on a media event—but out of idle curiosity. Much heavier on the idleness than the curiosity.

They had planned to go to Italy, Sam and Allison. A trip this spring, before heavy tourism, to less-traveled places like Poggi del Sasso and Gaiole in Chianti. She had already made plans for it, already booked romantic rooms in renovated castles with verandas where they could sit with wine and cheese and watch the sun go down over the breathtaking countryside.

“Oh, God.” She wipes the moisture from her cheeks. “Oh,
shit.
” The percolator has been whistling for too long. She pulls it off the stove, burning herself on the handle, spilling the entire thing onto the floor, the coffee that she had burned, anyway. She picks up the percolator and slams it against the refrigerator, breaking the lid off.

She lets out a loud moan, a deep sound she doesn't recognize, and covers her face with her hands. She is woozy but unwilling to correct the sensation, unwilling to open her eyes.

“They think I killed you,” she says to him, and actually laughs, a release of nervous tension. “They actually think I killed you.”

The doorbell rings just after nine in the morning. She hasn't showered or even brushed her teeth, but she is far beyond appearances. She goes to the door and stares through the peephole. She sees a woman, an attractive woman with a tiny face, expressive brown eyes, cropped dark hair. A woman who is holding her credentials up for Allison to see.

“My name is Special Agent Jane McCoy,” the woman says. “I'm with the FBI.”

“What do you want?” Allison calls out, her heartbeat kicking into overdrive.

“A minute of your time, please.”

“What does the FBI have to do with me?”

“Let me in and I'll tell you.”

Allison takes a breath, opens the door. “What do you want?”

“May I come in?”

Allison leads the federal agent into the den. She takes a seat on the couch. She remembers her father, interrogating her as she sat on this very couch, about her whereabouts the prior evening, when she blew her midnight curfew. She remembers, in fact, that it was Mat Pagone with whom she had spent that evening.

Her parents didn't approve of Mat. She had been quick to accuse them of racism, a strapping Latino boy entering a white, middle-class home to date a younger white girl. Mother said it was a matter of age—Mat was a college freshman at the state university, the starting middle linebacker, and Allison was a high school sophomore. As a freshman a year earlier, she had worshipped Mat, a senior and an all-state player. As a sophomore, she had caught his eye at a postgame party one Saturday night, a party that Allison certainly was not supposed to attend, but which many of her friends did. The kids from both the public and Catholic schools on the northwest side caught all the football games at the state university, only miles away, and managed to get into the parties, too—especially the pretty female students.

Yes, she once was pretty. She had stopped believing that a long time ago.

You're so beautiful
, Sam had said to her,
I lose my breath.

The FBI agent sits across from Allison on the ottoman of a leather recliner. The agent is a petite woman. Soft brown hair cut short, a tiny curved face, the wide innocent eyes of a doe. She is immediately likable, Allison thinks, regardless of the circumstances. That has probably been an asset in her job. The good cop in the routine.

“We can help each other,” the agent says to Allison.

“Before you tell me how you plan to
help
me,” Allison starts, “why don't you tell me what you're doing here?”

“Well, Mrs. Pagone—or is it Ms. Quincy now?”

Allison chews on her lip. “Is this the part where you tell me that you know all about me?” she asks. “I hate to burst your bubble, Agent Whatever-your-name-is, but you aren't the first to try that stunt. And if you hadn't noticed, my life is hardly a secret these days.”

McCoy smiles at Allison. “It's McCoy. Jane McCoy. You've heard of Operation Public Trust. I'm one of the case agents on that investigation.”

“Okay,” says Allison. “Thank you. Now, please tell me how you intend to ‘help' me.”

“I think you know, ma'am.”

Allison doesn't respond. She thinks of what her lawyer would advise her to do, which is precisely that.

“I've been following your trial,” McCoy says. “You know a lot of what we know, quite honestly.”

“I'm sure I don't know as much as the federal government.”

McCoy watches Allison a moment. She leans forward, her elbows on her knees.

“I think you know
more
,” McCoy says.

Allison looks away. “You've got five minutes. You can spend that time baiting me, or you can get to the point.”

“Very good.” McCoy claps her hands together. “You are out of options, Mrs. Pagone. You're going to lose your case, from what I can see. Maybe you'll beat the death penalty. I don't know. I'm saying, you can help yourself. I can help you. Take some years off that sentence. Keep you close to home so your daughter can visit. But you have to help me first.”

Allison steels herself.

You want Mat.

“You have to give me your husband,” McCoy concludes.

Allison counts to ten before she answers.

“Ex-husband.”

McCoy opens her hands. “Exactly.”

“Get out.”

“You'd be helping him as well, Mrs. Pagone. Mat was the one. He was the one passing the money to the senators. I know it.”

“Mat wasn't even representing Flanagan-Maxx. Not at the time.”

“Not on the books,” McCoy agrees. “We know he was lobbying for MAAHC. Same difference.”

Allison plays with her hands. She inhales deeply.

“Ollie Strickland,” McCoy says. “Don't act like you don't know.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“We'll get Ollie to roll, Allison. In time. He's not there yet. Someone always gives in, and it's usually the one who has less to lose. The ones with mud on their shoes, they're always the last to fall, and they fall farthest.”

“Get out, Agent McCoy.”

“I know that you know.” McCoy fixes on Allison. “I think Sam Dillon knew, too. I think Sam Dillon found out what Flanagan-Maxx was doing, subsidizing a nonprofit group to push their prescription-drug legislation for them. And not just advocating. Bribing lawmakers. That's the illegal part. That's the part your ex-husband was doing.”

“You can't prove that.”

“No, not yet. But I will.”

Allison stands up. “My answer is no.”

McCoy rises as well. “Your ex-husband will say yes.”

Allison's chin rises; she stares into McCoy's eyes. “What does that mean?”

Drop the 311 if Mat sings.

McCoy stares back with confidence, as if she enjoys having the ball in her court. “It means I'll go to Mat,” she says. “I'll make him a deal. I'll get the county attorney to
spare you the death penalty if he'll give me the information I need.” She raises a hand, as Allison begins to protest. “You two may be divorced, but he's no monster. He'll be more than happy to admit his involvement, if it means sparing the mother of his daughter a death sentence.”

“You can't do that,” Allison says. “You can't. I have to be part of a plea agreement.”

“C'mon, Mrs. Pagone, you were a public defender once.” McCoy shrugs. “I'll get the county attorney to drop the 311 request. He doesn't need a plea from you. He'll just tell the court that he no longer wishes to seek the death penalty. He has total discretion on that. He'll give his word to your husband—sorry, your
ex
-husband—and I'm sure Mat will sing like a canary for me.”

Allison looks around the room, flaps her arms nervously so they smack against her legs.

Nothing on Mat.

“You don't have any proof against Mat, or you wouldn't be here.”

McCoy sighs. “I don't have enough to put him away,” she concedes. “And that's only because Sam Dillon is dead. So I figure, Mat owes you one for that. He bribed a bunch of senators and you killed the only person who could put him away. Really, he's getting a pretty good deal here. You kill the guy who was going to roll on him, the least he can do is keep you off death row.”

Allison sits back down on the couch. “How can you do this to people?”

“How can I do this to people who commit murder and bribe politicians? It's not that hard, frankly.” She claps her hands together again. “I'll give you a couple of days to think about it. Your trial's in recess until Wednesday, right? So how's Wednesday night for you?” she asks, as if she's scheduling a dinner. “Okay. Wednesday. I'll come by after court. But I'm telling you, Allison. If you think you can
stonewall me, you're not as smart as you seem to be. Mat will take my deal whether you want him to or not.”

McCoy gathers her bag and nods at Allison.

“I have a daughter,” Allison says. “She's already going to lose her mother.”

McCoy deflates. Allison can imagine what the agent is thinking.
This is what criminals always do. They rob, cheat, steal, maim, and kill, but as soon as the hand of justice grabs the back of their necks, they're begging for mercy.

“Wednesday night,” McCoy repeats, on her way out.