The Perfect Mother (2 page)

“Her boyfriend?”

Julia paused, confused. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. They lived together. Well, some of the time.”

Jennifer bit her upper lip.

“I really have to go, Mrs. Lewis. I’m sorry, but the police told me not to talk to anyone and I could get in trouble.”

“Wait—please, Julia. What terrible things are they saying about Emma? Who is saying these things? Who was killed? How is Emma connected to all this?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you on the phone. Maybe we can talk when you come.”

“But how can I reach you—” Jennifer began, but Julia interrupted.

“I’ll e-mail you,” she said hurriedly, and hung up.

In the eight months that Emma had been in Spain, during which she and Emma had e-mailed back and forth every day, Jennifer had never heard that her daughter had a boyfriend named Paco.

She went back to her preparations, her mind racing. She decided not to tell Mark—why upset him more before she had the whole story? She went to the supermarket to stock up on supplies for Mark and the kids, got cash from the ATM, retrieved her passport, and finished her errands. Then she called a car to take her to the airport. Tomorrow, she would know more.

J
ennifer had two hours to kill after she checked in for her 9
P
.
M
.
flight, so she called home. Aricelli, their longtime housekeeper and babysitter, answered the phone. Mark must have known he’d be late and called Aricelli to fill in. Lily would be furious—she considered herself much too old to have someone in the house to look after things, even though she couldn’t be counted on to get off the phone long enough to get Eric to sleep on time or make sure he ate his dinner. Jennifer felt a wave of disappointment and, as usual, she worked hard to suppress it. She listened to Mark’s cell ring unanswered and left a message, her voice cold but controlled.

“Mark, I called home and was surprised you weren’t there yet, especially today. I’m at the airport. I’ll board in about an hour. Please call me, and please go home. Oh, and don’t forget that Eric does soccer after school tomorrow. He’ll need his ball and uniform, which are in the sports closet, top shelf. Please put them in his backpack so he doesn’t forget them. If I don’t talk to you before I leave, I’ll call when I arrive.”

Mark didn’t call. Jennifer boarded the plane, and just as she settled into her seat, her cell phone rang. Mark. She didn’t answer and turned it off. She thought again of Emma, alone and scared in jail, and felt the already familiar ache. Being a mother is like being held hostage, she thought, with no prospect of release—even when your children are grown, probably even when they have children of their own.

Her mind wandered to what only yesterday had seemed like pressing problems: helping Eric make an erupting volcano for his third-grade science fair; finishing
The Sun Also Rises
so she could help Lily write a paper on it for her junior English class. This business, this middle-of-the-night phone call, was absurd. Ridiculous. It would probably be cleared up by the time she arrived, she thought, but it was good she was going. Emma must be so upset. What a terrible thing for her to go through.

The drinks cart stopped in front of her and she asked for a Scotch, pushing away the memory of her daughter’s shaking, frightened voice. It wasn’t Jennifer’s usual drink—wine was more her style—but she took a sip, grimacing at the strong taste and feeling a comforting warmth in her throat. She took another sip.

She thought about how proud she had been of Emma when she got accepted to Princeton and then last summer when she started interning for the International Rescue Committee. That was so lucky, she mused. She had met a woman at a dinner party who happened to be on the board, and Jennifer told her how bright and committed Emma was. Of course once Emma went for the interview, they hired her. How could they not?

When she told Mark about it, he had said, “If I come back in a second life, I want it to be as your child.” Jennifer had answered that he had her as his wife, wasn’t that good enough? But he just laughed.

She took another sip of the Scotch. It went down smoother this time.

Emma had always been passionate about social justice. She’d done volunteer work with the Innocence Project when she was in high school, and of course she believed that just about every prisoner was actually innocent. How bitterly ironic it was that she was herself now falsely accused.

After a restless night, rumpled and groggy, her breath stale, she disembarked in Madrid, went through customs, and set off for the domestic terminal for her connecting flight to Seville. After landing in Seville, she found her way to the baggage area, where she spotted a man bearing a sign with her name on it. He was probably in his early thirties, wearing a black leather jacket. But she soon noticed that he was accompanied by a dignified-looking man of about fifty whose dark brown hair was flecked with gray and who was dressed in an immaculate navy blue suit, sky blue shirt, and red and blue tie.

“Mrs. Lewis?”

She nodded.

“My name is José Sancho Gomez. I am a criminal lawyer and I’ve been asked to consult with you about your daughter’s case,” he said in perfect, unaccented English, which sounded slightly foreign only because of its formality.

“Thank you so much for coming. I was hoping I could see Emma before anything else. Can we arrange for her bail?”

“I think perhaps it will be better if we talk a bit first.” He offered to carry her hand luggage and she gave it to him. The driver took her suitcase. “Spanish law is a bit different from yours,” he said, steering her toward the exit. “Bail is rarely set for a murder case. But Emma is not arrested and has not been charged. The police have the right to hold her for seventy-two hours. If they don’t find any evidence that she is guilty, they cannot hold her longer and they will release her. This could all be over in two more days.”

“Oh, thank God. When can I see her? She needs to know I’m here.”

“I understand. We will go to the police station in a little while and they will let you see her. I have already been there and she is coping well. They are questioning her again now, so we have a little time to talk before they will allow you in. Why don’t we use that to explain the situation so far? Since I am from Madrid, I have no office here, but we can talk in a colleague’s chambers.”

They had reached the exit, and leaving her suitcase with her, the driver left to get the car.

“But shouldn’t you be with her when she is questioned?” Jennifer asked.

“Yes, of course she must have a lawyer with her, but my colleague is accompanying her. He is from Sevilla; he knows the prosecutor and the investigating magistrate. It will be better for him to be there at this stage.” A black Peugeot pulled up at the curb and José led her to it.

She didn’t speak during the fifteen-minute ride to the center of the city, lost in her thoughts and concerns. José, however, emitted a steady stream of local trivia, as though she were a tourist. His patter irritated her and she tried to ignore it. As they reached the center, however, she glanced out the window. She’d never been to Seville and understood immediately why Emma loved it. The city was exquisite. The sun shining so brightly on the Gothic cathedral felt like a good omen. Still, she was determined to resist the city’s charms. But the heat and humidity, unusual for this time of year, were inescapable. She took off her light cotton jacket, grateful she had remembered to dress in layers.

They crossed the river at the Puente de San Telmo, passed the Plaza de Cuba, and stopped in front of 66 Calle Sanchez del Aguila, a well-kept four-story building. As they entered, Jennifer noticed a brass plaque affixed to the door. José saw her looking at the engraving, which read
ABOGADOS.
“It means ‘law office.’ We are going to the second floor,” he said, ringing for the elevator. “Actually, that would be your third floor. In Spain, we don’t count the main floor as you do in the U.S.”

The elevator was small; it had room for no more than three people and even two felt cramped, and the hallway on the third floor was dark with small leaded windows just below the ceiling. The office, however, was cozy, with a large mahogany desk dominating the room, two black leather client chairs, a small couch, and several antique maps of Seville on the walls. José sat at the desk and she sat facing him. He offered her a cup of tea, which she refused. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and asked her if she minded if he smoked. She did, but said she didn’t.

“How much do you know about this case?” he asked.

“Nothing. My daughter called us in the middle of the night and said she was in trouble. She went to a party. She thinks she ate some brownies laced with hashish, and somehow she ended up being suspected of murder. We’ll do anything to help her. We want to bring her home.”

“Your husband is not here?”

“He will be.”

José nodded. “Let me tell you what we know so far.” He glanced down at some papers, seemingly to refresh his memory, then leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling as he spoke.

“In the early hours of Tuesday, April twenty-fifth, the last night of our annual
feria
when there are many people celebrating in the streets, your daughter placed a call to zero-nine-one, the emergency police number. She was crying and apparently was difficult to understand, but she told the operator to send the police to her home address immediately. When asked the problem, she said someone had died.”

He paused, leaning forward to consult the report on his desk.

“Go on, please,” Jennifer urged.

“When the police arrived they found Emma sitting on a chair in the corner, her eyes glazed and seemingly in shock. A young man, a Spanish student from Almería, was lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. He had been stabbed multiple times in the arms, chest, and neck and was dead.”

“Oh, God, my poor baby.”

The lawyer looked at her. “Well, yes. But the first sympathy of course was for the dead boy.”

“Of course, I’m so sorry. I’m just . . . I’m trying to understand how my daughter could have been in this situation.”

“She said the boy tried to rape her and the police officers took her straight to the hospital for examination. The doctors didn’t find any physical problems and she refused permission for a rape test. This was not wise because although it is her right, it doesn’t look good and raises suspicion. She was then brought to the police station for questioning. In Spain, she cannot be held more than eight hours without a lawyer present, but remember she was picked up in the middle of the night. Just like in your country, she has the right to forgo having her lawyer present during questioning, and also like your country, I’m sure they put pressure on her to do that. They’d have asked her why wait for your lawyer—unless you have something to hide.

“You know after a night in the cell, people tend to talk. It’s dirty, dingy, you’re crammed in with others, the food is terrible, and if you want to use the bathroom a policeman must accompany you to the door. And some of these policemen can be frightening. I had a case where the officer was shouting at a young woman and banging his hand hard on the table to emphasize his words, leaning in very close to her face and terrifying her. It wasn’t long before she was ready to
cantar La Traviata
, as we say here—sing like a canary, I think is the English expression. But I walked in at the right moment and told her to stop talking.”

Obviously distressed, but refusing to be sidetracked, Jennifer pressed him for more information. “Please, what did Emma say happened?”

“She said she’d been at a bar where she had a few beers and ate some brownies that were apparently laced with hashish. She’d gone home alone. As she neared her apartment this man started following her. He pulled out a knife and forced her inside, where he threw her on the bed and tried to rape her. She fought him and screamed.”

Jennifer gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” José said. “I know all this is difficult for a mother to hear. But there is much more and you will have to be strong.” He opened a cabinet, poured a glass of sherry, and offered it to her, but she waved it away. He drank it himself in one gulp.

“Go on, please,” Jennifer said. José returned to the desk and looked again at the file.

“She claims that a passerby heard her pleas and burst in the door of her ground-floor apartment, which had not been locked. He fought with the attacker and killed him in self-defense. Emma was a witness so he would probably not have been prosecuted, but the boy—the newspapers are already calling him
el buen samaritano
, the Good Samaritan—told her he is an Algerian and is here illegally. He said he could not be found by the police and he ran off, leaving Emma alone in the apartment with the dead boy. She immediately called the police.”

“Then why is she in jail? She’s a victim, not a criminal.”

“I’m afraid the police believe that remains to be seen. At the very least she is a material witness, and she is an American, which makes her a flight risk. They are looking for the Algerian. By tomorrow the whole country will be looking for him.”

“How is Emma? How could anyone question her if she was in shock?”

“I saw her briefly this morning before you arrived. She is handling herself well under the circumstances. I believe they did not interrogate her right away. A detective is supposed to simply ask her what happened and write down her answer. The questioning now will be more thorough.”

“When can I see her? Is there any way to get her out before the full seventy-two hours?”

“We will see. It depends on what evidence they find. It is possible they will charge her with something. They have collected samples from the crime scene and the pathologist has examined the body.”

“Does that mean a grand jury?”

“We do not have a grand jury system in Spain. That function is filled by a judge—in this case, Sr. Ramón Delgado, who acts as investigating magistrate. He meets with the defense, the prosecution, and the suspect and decides whether or not to take the case to trial.”

“Just one person makes that decision? What does he base it on?”

The lawyer answered in the neutral tone of a law professor. “The judge is given reports of the crime scene, the pathologists’ findings (there must be two separate pathologists examining the body under Spanish law), and the interrogation of the suspect. He also orders the police to do follow-up investigations where necessary: find witnesses, question friends and colleagues, and make reports based on which he makes his decision.”

Jennifer wished Mark were with her. He would understand this better, but she struggled to follow and take notes so she could fill him in later.

“It is important that we work to absolve your daughter of guilt at this stage,” José continued. “In our system, there is, as I said earlier, no right to bail in a homicide case. The time between the charge and the trial can be anywhere from two to four years. If they charge her, your daughter will be sent to prison until the trial.”

Jennifer gasped. “How could that be? What if people are innocent? They spend two or even four years in prison before they are even on trial?”

He nodded. He’d heard Americans make this objection before and he had an answer that satisfied him, if not them. “The pretrial investigation is very thorough,” he said. “I will keep you aware of any and all information as I receive it.”