The Perfect Mother (20 page)

I
t wasn’t until the next day that Fernando came to the prison to get Emma’s statement, and he brought a stenographer with him. He entered the room briskly, his face composed and his manner cordial but distinctly unfriendly. Emma appeared very nervous and she requested that José and her parents be allowed to stay. Fernando agreed.

“I am told you have a statement to make,” he said coldly. “I await it and regret only that it took so long for you to come to this decision.”

Emma was contrite. “I know. You have every right to be angry. I’m so sorry.”

“I think that Rodrigo’s parents, who will suffer from this for the rest of their lives, would like to hear that you are sorry and would appreciate knowing, finally, the truth about what happened to their son.”

Emma looked down sorrowfully and started to say something, but her voice broke and she seemed too shaken to speak. Mark suggested she sit down and when she did, he sat next to her. Jennifer sat on her other side and took her hand. Emma looked at her gratefully, then at Mark, and finally, timidly, at Fernando.

“I feel terrible . . . terrible for his parents. And I don’t know. I’m confused now hearing what everyone says about Rodrigo; maybe he didn’t try to rape me. Maybe he didn’t see it that way. But it felt like that. He followed me.” She turned to her father. “I don’t know what the lab tests showed and I don’t even know how good their labs are or how long they waited to do the tests, but I can tell you that he smelled of alcohol and he acted drunk.”

Fernando bristled. “Our labs are state of the art,” he said. “As good as or better than any in the States. And the tests showed that he had some alcohol in his system. It’s questionable whether that is enough to explain what sounds like a complete break in his usual behavior.”

Emma was about to answer, but Mark cut in. “But it was established that he rarely drank. Maybe that little bit of alcohol was enough since he wasn’t used to drinking.”

Fernando paused, then nodded. “That’s possible,” he said. He turned to Emma. “Let’s get back to the night of his death. What happened next?”

Emma resumed. “He came up behind me as I was entering my apartment and he pushed me inside.”

“You said he held a knife to you to force you inside,” Fernando said.

“Yes, I know I did. I thought he had a knife. Maybe it was just his keys in my back; maybe he was pretending to have a knife.” Mark thought about their discussion in José’s office when he had suggested that interpretation and was glad she had remembered it.

“I had never seen him before,” she continued. “He said he’d heard about me. That I was a ‘famous American.’ I knew he meant promiscuous because I’d heard the gossip”—she looked at her mother—“the unfair, untrue gossip about me, just because I’m American and did and said things a little differently, maybe a little freer, than them. Maybe I talked wilder than I was. It was stupid, I know. I told him what he heard was wrong and he should go, but he grabbed me and tried to kiss me. I fought him, but he got me to the bed. He ripped off my blouse. I screamed, and he put his hand over my mouth. He kept acting like it was no big deal, like I was just playing and really wanted him. I couldn’t believe it. I managed to squirm away and I ran into the kitchen. I picked up the kitchen knife from the counter and held it in front of me to scare him away. But he just laughed and grabbed it from me. I screamed again and then I heard the door open and I knew that Paco had come home. He burst into the kitchen. He saw what was happening and he advanced on Rodrigo and they started to fight. Rodrigo still had the knife and as they were fighting Paco got cut a few times, nothing serious, just little nicks, on the arm and one hand. But when Rodrigo saw the blood, he got scared and he threw the knife down so they were both just fighting with their fists. But Rodrigo was stronger and he was winning and Paco finally saw the knife on the ground and picked it up.”

“And you?” Fernando asked. “Why didn’t you call the police during this fight?”

“I wanted to, but Paco kept saying, no, don’t call anyone, I’ll take care of this.”

“Did you see Paco stab Rodrigo?”

Emma was becoming more and more agitated as she remembered and recounted the scene. She bit her lip and covered her face with her hands as her voice shook. It was hard to decipher the words, so Mark very gently reached over and moved her hands away. She gripped the edge of the table and continued.

“I don’t know, exactly. They were fighting and Paco kept sticking him with the knife, cutting him hard, purposely, like he was playing with him, tormenting him, trying to scare him and show him what he could do.” She stopped talking and they waited for her to go on.

Finally Fernando spoke softly, encouraging her. “Yes, Emma. What happened next?”

She covered her eyes again and then put her hands down on the table. She had started to cry. “I was screaming at Paco to stop, that he was really hurting him, that he should put the knife down, and then suddenly Rodrigo swung at Paco and went for the knife and Paco cursed and lunged forward, and the next thing I knew Rodrigo was on the ground and there was blood all over and Paco was standing over him. I was huddled in the corner crying and begging them to stop. I ran over to see how Rodrigo was, but he didn’t move and his eyes looked like glass and I think he was already dead.”

“But you didn’t think you should call an ambulance to try to save him.”

“Paco said he was dead. He said if the police came they would never believe he killed him in self-defense, no matter what I said. He said the only way to save him was to say someone else did it and for him to disappear until the cuts on his arm and hand healed. He made me help him move the body to the bedroom and we made up the story about the Algerian. I wish I hadn’t listened to him. I wish I had told the truth from the beginning.” She was crying.

Fernando paused. He cracked his knuckles—first his right hand and then his left. He got up and circled Emma’s chair, leaning over, closer than seemed comfortable, to look directly into Emma’s eyes. “He made you help him move the body? How did he do that? With a knife? A gun?”

She winced, looked down again, and closed her eyes. “No. I just did what he said. I was used to doing whatever he said.”

Fernando approached her other side and leaned in again. “And the money, Emma?”

She paused and swallowed and looked away, leaning her body away from his, trying to regain some personal space, but he continued to lean toward her, his face close to hers.

“We didn’t know him. He went through his pockets to find his identification to see who he was. He found the money and he took it. He said he would give it to his movement but I shouldn’t tell the police. I knew that was wrong, but I was so afraid, so I listened to him.”

“This is the truth, Emma?” Fernando said softly. “No more lies? Not even a little one?”

She looked at her mother and father for help, but there was nothing they could do. Jennifer squeezed her hand. She forced herself to look straight at Fernando.

“No more lies,” Emma asserted. “This is the truth. Paco did it, but I don’t think he meant to. He was trying to protect me. It was self-defense.”

Fernando looked at the stenographer to be sure she had gotten it all. He moved away, increasing the space between them, and Emma took a deep breath of relief. He spoke formally, in a professional tone, telling her the statement would be typed properly and then brought to her for her signature.

As Fernando reached the door, he turned to José. “Self-defense? I’m not sure. It may have appeared so to her. But killing an unarmed boy because he is stronger than you and is beating you in a fight is not self-defense. Especially when you add the robbery.”

“That is for his lawyer to discuss with you,” José said. “Will you accept my client’s statement, as we agreed, in exchange for her freedom?”

“Perhaps,” Fernando said. “Let us see what Paco says when he hears this statement.”

When he left, Emma’s body seemed to collapse. She hunched over and no one said anything for a little while, trying to give her some space to collect herself. Jennifer assumed Emma was feeling relief, and she was elated. Even Mark, usually more temperate in his reactions, seemed to feel optimistic. For the first time it looked as if this nightmare might end and they could bring Emma home. Finally, Jennifer spoke.

“Well, honey, that was hard and very brave. I’m proud of you.”

But Emma didn’t seem relieved. Her eyes looked wide and scared and she was staring ahead of her at the wall, almost talking to herself.

“They are going to talk to Paco,” she said so softly they could barely hear her. “What if he tells them something different?”

“What do you mean?” Jennifer asked, her sense of danger suddenly aroused. “Are you afraid of him? He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Emma looked at her. Her voice was louder now, and they could hear every word easily. She spoke slowly, as if talking to someone who had trouble understanding her language.

“I mean, what if he’s mad that I spoke to them and told them? I promised him I wouldn’t. What if he wants to get back at me and tells them a different story?”

Mark looked up and so did José.

“What different story?”

“I don’t know—I’m not saying he will; I’m just saying he could do anything if he’s mad. He could say I was more involved than I was. Consuela said he’s a pathological liar. I know that’s true from everything that has happened, and she said he is vengeful and she’s seen him lie to hurt people, to get even, not just to get what he wants.”

Mark and Jennifer shared a look of worry and sadness. Jennifer thought that this was more proof, as if any was needed, of how abused her daughter had been by this man. She had always thought abused women started out weak and damaged and that’s why they let the abuse happen, but Emma had seemed so strong and self-confident before. This could happen to anyone, she realized. Emma thought he had power over everything because he had such power over her. She was about to tell her daughter this, but José spoke first.

“If the prosecutor believes your story—and it is not yet certain he will—then Paco will be charged at the most with assault with excessive force during a fight and robbery. If he saves them the cost of a trial and pleads guilty to this, even with his background, he will probably end up with maybe five years in prison. If he doesn’t, and if he implicates you, as you seem to fear, they may go back to their first interpretation of the events. This would mean, if you are convicted, long jail sentences for both of you. I am sure his lawyer will tell him this. If he doesn’t go along with you, he will be putting his desire to hurt you above his desire to save himself. He may do that—you know that better than I—but it would not be wise.”

This speech seemed to calm Emma a bit. But she was still worried. “He is not wise. He is passionate. He acts on impulse.”

“But he is passionate in the service of himself,” Mark said. “I think José is right.”

Jennifer turned to José. “When will we know something?”

There was a knock at the door. José opened it and a guard informed him that the visiting time was over and Emma had to return to her room. He thanked him and reported that it was time for them to leave.

As they were hugging Emma and saying good-bye and promising her that everything would be all right and she had done the right thing, José gathered his papers and walked to the door, waiting for them.

“I think we will have an answer, at least provisionally, by later today or tomorrow. They will speak to Paco and his lawyer. If he agrees to a plea, he will remain in custody and Emma will be released. It could happen as early as tomorrow or the day after.”

“Would I have to stay here until the trial?”

“No. If he pleads guilty to that lesser charge, there won’t be a trial. You will be free to go home. But let’s not think too far ahead. We have to wait. It depends on him.”

Mark walked to the door. “This is ridiculous. You are saying her whole future depends on the decision of a psychopath.”

José shrugged helplessly. “I think that’s been true since she met him.”

“No,” Mark shot back, his voice sharp and angry. “Her future always depended on her own decisions. I hope she sees that now.”

Jennifer whirled around, shocked and furious. “Mark!”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Emma said. “He’s right.”

There was another knock at the door and an impatient voice told them in Spanish that the visit was over. Mark hugged Emma one last time and walked out. Jennifer hugged her too and smoothed her hair. “You’ve made the right decision now, Emma,” she said into her ear. “That’s what counts.”

“I hope so,” Emma murmured, as Jennifer followed Mark and José into the corridor.

T
he decision didn’t come the next day or the day after or even the day after that. Jennifer called Roberto and José every day, asking when they would hear, what was happening, why was it so slow, and each reassured her that these things take time, that they would call her the moment they heard anything and that the delay was actually a good sign. The wheels were turning, they maintained. If they had been stuck in the mud, they would have heard.

Mark managed to arrange his schedule so he didn’t have to leave during what they hoped would be the final tense time. Jennifer had mixed feelings about this. She was grateful, of course, and understood he needed to be here as much as she did. But his presence also meant she saw less of Roberto. In fact, she couldn’t come up with a reason to see him at all, and he didn’t call or try to see her. But not seeing him didn’t mean not thinking about him, and she had to force herself to be present when she was with Mark and not allow her mind to wander to something Roberto had said, or to the comfort and occasional relief he had provided. She found it helped if she tried to share at least some of her relationship with Roberto with Mark, and she told him about Roberto’s own personal tragedy. Mark was sympathetic—he was a good man—but he had no attachment to Roberto, whose problems were peripheral to his own concerns. Still, she talked of Roberto’s lost daughter and mad wife so often and so intensely, Mark would sometimes look at her curiously while she spoke and then gently change the subject. Who’s not seeing what he doesn’t want to see now? Jennifer thought. But she said nothing about it and took it as a warning to hold back.

She and Mark took a cab to see Emma the first day it was permitted, two days after she had made her statement. José was too busy to take them and Jennifer didn’t want to ask Roberto—it was too difficult to be with him and Mark at the same time. The taxi driver spoke a little English and he and Mark engaged in conversation about Spain’s economic problems and the harsh cutback and privations Germany was imposing on the people in exchange for forgiving some of the debt. Trying to explain the cultural differences between Germany and Spain and how what worked for one wouldn’t work for another, the cab driver said emphatically, “Aquí es aquí y allí es allí!” She was able to translate this for Mark. It meant simply “Here is here and there is there.” But for Jennifer it struck deeper. It spoke directly to her quandary about Roberto and Mark. It was all about “here” or “there,” she thought. And she would be spending her life “there.” She wanted but couldn’t have both. She had to find a way to live with that.

Jennifer had been nervous and Mark had been edgy, but both were nothing compared to Emma, who had bitten her nails to the quick and was unable even to sit down during their entire visit. She paced and sighed and scratched her leg or her arm. She was so agitated that if she hadn’t been in prison, Jennifer might have thought she was on amphetamines. But it was all adrenaline, self-produced and unavoidable under these circumstances. They did their best to calm her down. Mark was decidedly better at it than Jennifer. Her own anxiety was so high, and Emma was so plugged into her, that no matter how hard she tried or how careful she was in what she said, she only seemed capable of augmenting rather than ameliorating Emma’s anxiety. So she hung back and said little. Emma seemed to understand and even to sympathize with her mother. When it was time to go, she put both arms around her and hugged her and whispered into her ear, “It’s okay, Mama. I’m going to be fine, whatever happens. Please don’t worry so much. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she answered automatically. But she didn’t believe for a second that any of them would be fine, “whatever happens.”

Three more days passed. Jennifer called José to see if he had spoken to Paco’s lawyer and learned anything that way, but José said he still knew nothing, though he expected a decision very soon. He advised her and Mark to take a trip to Granada for a few days. The idea seemed preposterous to her. She couldn’t think of anything but Emma’s fate, rolling around different scenarios in her mind by day and in the middle of the night. Mark wanted her to see a therapist and get some antianxiety medication, but she bristled at the idea. She feared a therapist would feed her the usual bromides: “Disentangle yourself; separate yourself; you can’t fix this for her; she has to do it herself.” “If need be, she has to serve her time.” “You have to concentrate on the rest of your life and your other children and stop obsessing over Emma.”

She didn’t want to hear them. It wouldn’t help. When did an obsession ever stop because it was the sensible thing to do? The only thing that would help would be to take Emma home. Then they could work on fixing everything—Emma, her, even her relationship with Mark.

She hung around the apartment, trying to read or find English-language movies on television. Mark urged her to go out, take a walk, do
something
, but she feared the reporters who continued to hound them and refused. There was one thing she did want to do, however. She remembered Roberto saying that the tabloid press back home was defending Emma by attacking Spain—in particular, implying that the beautiful former Jewish section of Seville somehow represented current anti-Semitism. This was so absurd that at first she had thought it didn’t merit intervention, that Roberto must have simply misunderstood. But it had bothered him, so she decided to see if he was right. She called Suzie, who was managing the public-relations company. Suzie’s reaction was defensive.

“Well, maybe there was a little implication that one of the reasons they were suspicious of Emma and attacking her as promiscuous was both anti-Americanism and residual anti-Semitism. It’s probably true.”

“It’s not true at all, Suze. It’s completely out of line and even a little crazy.”

“Well, so what? Whatever gets people here riled up is good. It exerts pressure.”

Jennifer was feeling too upset and tired to enter into a prolonged argument with her best friend. She spoke curtly. “It’s not good and it does matter, and on top of that it doesn’t help. It can only hurt. Please tell them to stop any of that immediately and to recant it if asked. I think we have a chance to end this, Suzie. Let’s not fuck it up.”

Suzie heard the tone and got the message. She agreed to take care of it right away.

Otherwise, one day followed the next without much change until, a full eight days after Emma gave her statement, the long-awaited phone call came through.

It was José. He said they had a decision. Would she and Mark join him in his office at 1:00
P.M
.?

Jennifer’s heart was pounding. Mark stood by and gripped her hand. “We’ll be there, José. But we can’t wait until then. What is the decision? Mark is here. Tell us now.”

“They have accepted her statement,” he said, not hiding the satisfaction in his voice. “She will be going home. We have only the bureaucratic details to work out. Congratulations.”

He was still talking—something about wanting to tell them in person and celebrate with champagne, but she had dropped the phone. She took several deep breaths, and then threw herself into Mark’s arms. “She’s coming home, Mark. It’s over. Oh, God, thank you, thank you.”

They were hugging and laughing and finally noticed the phone still hanging off the hook. Mark picked it up and spoke into it, calling José’s name, but he had already hung up.

“That’s okay. We’ll meet him at his office at one o’clock to go over the details,” Jennifer said.

She reached for the phone even before Mark had placed it back in its cradle.

“Who are you calling?”

“Roberto. I have to tell him.”

Mark looked confused. “Surely he knows, Jennifer. We need to call Lily and Eric and your parents and Suzie, not Roberto.”

She felt chastened. “Yes, of course. You’re right. It’s just that he’s helped so much in this. This wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t found Consuela. But it’s true, he probably already knows. Maybe he’ll be there at one. We should all celebrate together.”

Mark had pulled out his cell phone to call home, but Jennifer stopped him, reminding him of the time difference. “It’s the middle of the night there,” she said, laughing. “And to tell the truth, I’m glad. I still can’t really believe it. I’d rather call after we meet with José.”

Mark slowly put the phone down. They stared at each other, happy but still uneasy.

“What do we do now?” Jennifer asked. “How do we survive until one o’clock?”

He smiled affectionately at her and put both hands on her shoulders. “We get dressed. We eat a big breakfast at our favorite café. We take a walk and smell the flowers and enjoy the sunshine. We make plans about going home and what is the first thing we’ll do as a family when we arrive. We talk about how happy and lucky we are that it ended as it did.”

She put her arms around him and hugged hard. “So, so lucky,” she said. “That’s a great plan.”

But it didn’t work out that way.

As they exited the building they were surprised by a bevy of news reporters, both print and television, and who knew how many others—bloggers, tweeters, “citizen journalists,” or just nosy passersby with iPhones. Cameras clicked, microphones were shoved toward them, questions shouted out. “Have you heard the news?” “How do you feel?” “Does Emma know yet?” “What was the deal she made?” “Did she get away with murder?” And those were just the ones they could understand. There were hostile-sounding questions in Spanish too. They backed up, fled upstairs, and bolted themselves inside the apartment. Mark was not as accustomed to this as Jennifer had become. He looked at her questioningly.

“What I do when this happens,” she said, “is call Roberto.” As usual, the recording sounded.

“Roberto. If you’re there, please pick up.”

There was a brief pause.

“Diga.”

It was bittersweet to hear his voice.

“It’s me.”

“I know.”

“Have you heard about Emma?”

“Sí, por supuesto. I am delighted. Congratulations.”

“It would never have happened without you.”

“Or without you.”

A pause.

“Roberto, the media is surrounding our apartment. We are supposed to meet José at one p.m. Will you be there?”

“I can be.”

“Will you help us get there?”

“Sí
.
I will come with a taxi. I’ll call when I am in front. I’ll escort you both to the cab. Say nothing to any of them until she is free and at your side.”

“Okay . . . Roberto . . .”

“Sí?”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you later.”

He hung up and she held the phone for a few seconds. After she put it down, she noticed Mark standing in the doorway staring at her. She took a deep breath and turned to him, trying to make her voice as buoyant as possible.

“Well, that’ a relief. He says he’ll bring a taxi and pick us up for our meeting with José. And you were right. Of course he knew about Emma. He is delighted.”

Mark nodded but didn’t answer.

Jennifer got up and walked to the kitchen. “But I’m afraid our breakfast and celebratory walk will have to wait. Luckily we have a full fridge. I’ll make us a big American breakfast, okay? Fried eggs, toast, and bacon sound good?”

“Sure,” Mark said. “It sounds great.”

He sat at the kitchen table, and she took out the frying pan and put two pieces of bread into the toaster. Then she walked back to the table, bent over, and kissed him on the top of his head. He smiled at her.

“We did it,” she said. “We can take her home.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Now the real work begins.”