Moment of Truth (33 page)

Paige blinked back her tears.

“Nothing that your mother did to you justifies what you are doing to your father. You are letting your father take responsibility for your crime. And that’s wrong, no excuses. So stop crying and talk to me, like an adult. Like a woman.”

Paige swallowed hard. Mary could see her tiny dimple of an Adam’s apple travel down her reddening throat.

“Did you kill your mother, Paige?”

She didn’t say anything, and Mary resisted the urge to beat the truth out of her.

“Was Trevor involved in it?”

She still didn’t answer, setting Mary’s teeth on edge. If Paige had been on a witness stand, Mary would have torn into her, but that wouldn’t work here.

“Look, Paige, I know you lied to me and that Trevor was with you that night. Why are you protecting him? Because he fathered your baby?”

“How do you know—”

“I know more than that, more than you. He’s no good, believe me. You don’t know everything about him.”

“What do
you
know?” she asked, and Mary hesitated. The girl didn’t need another shock, but Mary wouldn’t get a second chance.

“After he left you yesterday, Trevor met someone else. Another woman. He went with her to New York last night. I saw them together at Thirtieth Street station.”

“I don’t believe you!” Paige shouted. Anger tinged her cheeks. “Trevor was home studying.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was, too!”

“How do you know? Did you call? Did he answer? I doubt it. Would you put your own father in prison to save a jerk like that?”

“He’s not a jerk! You don’t know him at all! I think it’s time for you to go.” Paige rose to her feet as quickly as Jack had, and Mary was getting used to being rejected by the members of the Newlin family. She reached down for her briefcase and legal pad.

“Think about what I’m saying, Paige. The longer you wait, the worse it is, for your father and for you. And Trevor, too. Read the newspaper today. The cops are on to you and Trevor.”

“Get out! I won’t hear this!” Paige hustled to the door and opened it wide, but Mary stopped at the threshold.

“Your father fired me this morning, for saying to him what I said to you. He is giving his life for you. And Trevor won’t even return your calls. Is that the kind of man you choose? For you and your baby?”

Paige’s only response was to look away, and Mary should have tried to convince her, if not throttle her. But instead she simply walked out on her, not wanting to be in her presence a moment longer.

Jack regained consciousness, lying alone in a small cell. Unlike his other cell, the door was solid except for a slit for food, and the sound of the other inmates was muffled. Ad seg; isolation. A stainless steel toilet, a bed, and twenty-three hours a day of alone; it didn’t matter to Jack anyway. His cheekbone throbbed and he touched the warm wetness there with handcuffed hands. Blood covered his finger pads when he withdrew his hand.

His ribs ached and he fought to keep his breathing even. They must have whacked him around because he felt broken and his jumpsuit was ripped and dirtied. His head thundered but his thoughts were like lifting fog. Mary. The newspaper. The police were getting closer to finding out about Paige. And Trevor.

Jack felt his chest constrict. His plan was threatening to unravel. Mary was yanking hard on the string and it was coming undone. He had to keep it together. If Trevor was guilty, then he would find a way to deal with it, but not until he was sure. He wouldn’t put Paige on the line, no matter what. It was the newspaper story that worried him now. If Trevor was in on Honor’s murder, he would be starting to worry about his own vulnerability. And if Trevor started to worry, Paige was in jeopardy.

Jack struggled to a sitting position against the wall. His sides ached and he slumped forward, stretching out his feet slowly. He had to get out of prison, to protect Paige. He’d be freed after his preliminary hearing today, if he got bail. He’d need a new lawyer. A real criminal lawyer. One who would take direction. Mary was gone. He winced and shifted his weight to the other side. He wouldn’t see her again.

Good, right? Right. Mary had been confusing him. Last night, in a moment before sleep, he’d caught himself hoping that the police would find out he was innocent, so he could go free. In one awful moment, he’d let himself realize that he had sacrificed his life when it had little value to him. Mary could have made it worth getting out of here. Now the prosecution was talking no deals. Jack would be going to trial, where he would lose. He had to; he’d rigged it that way. He froze at the thought, but he had no way out. The alternative would kill Paige. Even if Trevor were involved, Paige would be lost, too.

He was better off without Mary, he knew. She would have been his salvation. And his undoing.

“Miss DiNunzio, what happened at the prison?” “Miss DiNunzio, why did Newlin try to kill you?” “Mary, any comment?” “Mary, did you quit?” “Over here! Just one picture!”

It was overcast, gusty, and freezing, but for once the windchill wasn’t the big news. The press thronged around the small brick chapel of colonial vintage, in the heart of Society Hill. Reporters spilled off the narrow brick sidewalk, and news vans clogged a cobblestone street meant to support only horse-drawn carriages. Mary and Judy fought their way through the media, which snapped their photos and shoved microphones in their faces. The news that Jack Newlin had attacked his lawyer at the prison was breaking, and Mary was the quarry.

She kept her head down and barreled through the crowd with the larger Judy running interference. They made it to the white wood entrance, grabbed a black-bordered program from a wooden stand, and ducked inside the chapel. Mary stalled at the sight; the pews were virtually empty. “Where is everybody?” she whispered, and Judy shook her head.

“I guess nobody but reporters liked Honor.”

“At least Communion will be short.” Mary entered the chapel, which looked more like a school than a church. The interior was small, bright white, and austere. The walls contained only a tasteful number of stained-glass windows, remarkably free of the crucifixion, cross-bearing, and bloody crowns of thorns that made Mary feel so at home. She supposed you could have a religion without suffering, but she didn’t know how.

She wouldn’t have recognized the dais except that it was at the front. Instead of an elaborate altar that bore chalices, wafers, and wine, there was only a plain mahogany podium, an organ, and several polished wood chairs. The floor and pews had been milled from colonial walnut and were completely vacant except for Paige, her head bent in the front row, and a row of corporate lawyers that Mary was guessing were from Tribe & Wright. At the end of the row sat Dwight Davis.

“Trevor’s not here,” Mary observed. “But Davis came. Accept no substitutes.”

“Maybe Paige confronted Trevor.”

“Possible.” Mary looked down the row and spotted the thick neck of Detective Kovich. Brinkley wasn’t here, and she wondered if he’d been fired. The story in the newspaper couldn’t have helped his career.

“The service is starting, Mare. Let’s sit down.”

“Go close to the front,” Mary said, and they seated themselves in a pew several behind Paige and the lawyers. Mary wanted Paige to see her so she’d keep in mind what they’d said in the apartment. Maybe Mary’s appeal would sink in. She could only hope, but she couldn’t possibly pray. There was no ball of smoking incense, no cup of magic wine, and none of the other equipment essential to talk to God.

* * *

Paige sat in the front row of the service. The pastor was saying something but it didn’t matter. She didn’t know where Trevor was and she was worried that what Mary had told her was true. She’d left two messages for him but he still hadn’t called. It was weird. This had been happening a lot lately.

She bit her lip and thought back to when it started. She had to admit it had been since she told him she was pregnant. She felt nauseous again but it wasn’t the baby. She’d been going back and forth on the decision, but still couldn’t make up her mind. She was running out of time. Trevor wanted to get married, and so did she. She hoped they would make good parents, not like the ones they had. She had even started to read about raising babies and she hadn’t taken any drugs since the crystal.

The pastor was saying something else about her mother, even though he had never met her. Her mother didn’t have any friends at all; supposedly a society lady, she had no society. Paige felt sorry for her until she realized that she was alone here, too. She didn’t have any girlfriends either. Once Trevor had given her a button that said,
I
’
M BECOMING MY MOTHER
! She couldn’t bring herself to wear it. She thought about that for a while, her head bent, her eyes dry. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Mary, but looked away. She couldn’t think about that now.

The service ended and Paige went with her mother’s lawyers to the cemetery. When they slid her mother’s polished casket out of the shiny hearse, Paige decided she wasn’t going to pay attention anymore. The wind gusted, blowing her hair around, and she kept her head down and her lips tight. Men from the funeral home were the pallbearers, and for a while, it was easy to ignore everything, even at the graveside service. The short little pastor, the boring hymn, the rectangular hole, the important lawyer, Mr. Whittier, checking his watch; she didn’t notice a thing.

The casket was lowered into the grave, and she became aware of the press photographers, kept at a distance. She turned to the cameras automatically and smoothed her hair, then caught herself. She didn’t want to pose at her mother’s funeral. She didn’t want to pose at all anymore. She turned back just in time to see her mother disappearing into the earth forever, and the sight of it caught her by the throat. The harder Paige tried not to think about that, the harder she did think about it. The more she tried not to feel guilty, the guiltier she felt. The more she tried not to love her mother, the more she did.

And she started to cry and didn’t stop until long after her mother was gone.

“The next matter is
Commonwealth v. Newlin
,” the court crier called. “Defendant Jack Newlin is represented by Mr. Isaac Roberts, and Mr. Dwight Davis is here for the Commonwealth.”

“Thank you and good afternoon, counsel,” said Judge Angel Silveria from the dais. He flashed a brief smile, like a waning moon, and Mary, watching from her seat in the packed gallery, knew that it would be the last smile they’d see from him. A chubby, compact judge, Silveria was a former prosecutor who enjoyed his reputation as the most conservative on the Municipal Court bench. It didn’t matter so much at this preliminary proceeding, but Jack couldn’t have drawn a tougher judge for trial if he’d tried, and Mary wondered with dismay if he had.

“Good afternoon to you, Your Honor,” Isaac Roberts said with a flourish.

Mary craned her neck to get a better look at her replacement, patron saint of sleazeballs. Roberts was one of the best-known criminal lawyers in town, although he had never tried a murder case. He plea-bargained for upper-echelon drug dealers, a specialty for lawyers wishing their fees in cash and their eternity in hell. Roberts wore the best clothes that cocaine could buy; a dark Armani suit, Gucci loafers, and a Jerry Garcia tie to complement his Jerry Garcia ponytail. Mary assumed that Roberts was confusing crackhead with Deadhead and began to simmer. He wouldn’t care if Jack was innocent or guilty.

“Good day, Your Honor,” Davis said, shooting up like an arrow at counsel table. “The Commonwealth is ready to begin.”

Judge Silveria gestured to the sheriff. “Please bring in the defendant.”

Mary suppressed a pang when Jack was brought in, in an orange prison jumpsuit, handcuffs, and leg manacles, and escorted to his seat by two sheriffs. A red swelling over his right cheek distorted his handsome features, and he walked with obvious pain.

“If I may proceed, Your Honor,” Davis began, “the Commonwealth calls Detective Stan Kovich to the stand.”

Mary watched as the beefy detective rose, punched up his glasses, and lumbered to the witness stand where he was sworn in. Kovich looked so earnest on the stand, four-square and forthright, that she knew he’d be a terrific witness for the Commonwealth. She wondered again about Brinkley and twisted around in her seat. He was nowhere in sight, and she wasn’t surprised. She’d called the Roundhouse and left messages for him, but he hadn’t returned her calls. No surprise there either.

“Good morning, Detective Kovich,” Davis said. “I would like to direct your attention to January eleventh of this year. Did your duties as detective cause you to interview the defendant Jack Newlin at approximately nine o’clock in the evening?”