The Price of Silence (21 page)

“Did she tell you why she wanted to increase her workload?”

“She said she needed the money.”

“I see. Did she ever miss a Saturday class?”

Serrano sucks in air, looks at the defendant.

“Once she called in sick, but she got over it and was in school by nine-thirty.”

“Do you remember when that was?”

“No, I didn’t remember,” she says in an angry tone. “You made me look it up, that’s how I remember. It was March twentieth.”

“Thank you. A few more questions, Miss Serrano, and your ordeal will be over. On the afternoon of Tuesday, April nineteenth, did you answer the school telephone?”

“Yes. The receptionist was on her lunch break.”

“Please tell us about the phone calls you answered?”

“You’re only interested in the one for Ms. Perotti.”

“Mrs. Perotti received a phone call?”

“I just said that.”

“Did the caller identify himself or herself?”

“She said she was An-ling. No last name.”

“Do you recall what she said?”

“She wanted to speak to Ms. Perotti.” Serrano stresses the Ms.

“What time did the call come in?”

“Just after two p.m.”

“How can you be sure of the time?”

“Ms. Perotti’s first afternoon class starts at two. She doesn’t like interruptions.”

“Did you interrupt her?”

“Yes. Miss Huang said it was urgent. She sounded upset.”

“Did she tell you anything else?”

“No. I called Ms. Perotti out of her class and she went to take the phone call in her cubicle.”

“What happened after that?”

“After a few minutes, I saw Emma, Ms. Perotti, go back to her classroom. After class she came to my office and said something had come up and she had to leave. I told her not to worry, that I would teach her last two classes.”

“Did Mrs. Perotti explain why she had to leave?”

“I don’t need explanations from Ms. Perotti.”

“Did she seem angry?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled.”

Serrano takes a moment before answering, seemingly searching for the right words. “She seemed concerned,” she finally says.

“Do you know what time Mrs. Perotti left the school?”

“Yes. I accompanied her to the elevator, which is on the way to her class. She took the elevator at ten after three. The next class started at three-fifteen. I did not see her leave the building.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

Subj: Fairytales and fantasies
Date: 04-12-05 03:31:54 EST
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]

You want to hold everything tight in your hand because you think that way you’ll keep it forever.

Amy with her black curly hair and sweet grin. How do I know what she looks like when you have no photos of her in your apartment? Curly black hair, smiling and wearing a yellow sweater with Winnie the Pooh sewn on it or a pink striped outfit with ballooning shorts.

You were going to leave me. I just gave you a reason to go sooner. I made it my call.

The Chinese believe that once you save a person, you’re responsible for her for the rest of your life, but we live in America. You saved me for a little while. Thank you. I think for a little while I saved you too.

An-ling

PS. Go to Tom’s office. Sit at his desk and open his left-hand filing cabinet. Amy’s there. She looked like you.

He has photos and photos of Amy. Filed under D. For Daughter?

Dead?

Without pictures will you remember me?

“I won’t take up much more of your time, Ms. Serrano,” Fishkin says in cross-examination. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to your work.”

Serrano nods.

“You’ve known Emma Perotti how long?”

“Twelve years in September. I hired her.”

“Do you consider her a good teacher?”

Serrano smiles for the first time. “Her students love her and her colleagues respect her, which, believe me, doesn’t happen a lot.”

“You told the jury that An-ling Huang sounded upset on the phone when she asked for Emma Perotti.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us just how upset?”

Guzman stands with a raised arm. “Objection!”

“Your honor, I’m trying to establish An-ling Huang’s state of mind prior to her death. It is paramount to the defense’s case.”

“I’ll allow it,” Judge Sanders says and turns to Serrano. “You may answer the question.”

“The girl was crying into the phone.”

Josh

Over spring break, Dad and I went to Washington, D.C. for a couple of days to see the sights: the war memorials, the Capitol,Abe Lincoln sitting in his chair, the whole bit. It was my first time and it should have been great, but Dad wouldn’t let me take my laptop with me. He said he wanted my full attention. I couldn’t e-mail An-ling and she wasn’t answering any of the messages I left on her cell. I called the loft every day, got Mom sometimes, no answer the rest of the time. I was miserable, but I didn’t think anything was wrong.

Saturday morning we were on the New Jersey Turnpike coming home and my cell rang. I looked at Dad. He thinks cells should be banned except for emergencies.

“Josh, please. Let whoever it is leave a message.”

I knew it was An-ling. I just knew it.

“This is really important, Dad.” I answered.

“I don’t want to see you anymore,” she said.

She was kidding, I thought. “I don’t believe you.”

“Look, it was just a hook-up, okay. It’s over.”

I told her I’d call her back in a few hours.

“Don’t. I’m bored with fucking little kids.” She hung up.

Now I was roadkill, crow food.

Dad had one eye on the road, one on me.“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Was that your mother?”

“Max. I gotta go over there to practice a new song.” Lies come easy once you start.

I took the subway to Brooklyn, telling myself this wasn’t happening to me. An-ling was going to open the door laughing and kiss me and say it was just a joke. If it wasn’t a joke? Yell at her, beg her to take me back, shake her until she changed her mind, make love to her. I didn’t know what. I had a hundred rats’ teeth chomping at my insides and my head felt like the whole Manhattan subway system was running through it at breakneck speed.

I called her as soon as I got out of the subway station to get her to come down and open the door. No one answered. I walked over anyway. I rang the doorbell, banged on the door. She called my cell.

“Go away, little boy. I’m through with you.”

I don’t know when I smashed the cell against the door. I wasn’t aware of doing it until I saw the blood on my hand from where the cracked casing cut it. It wasn’t a bad cut, but I pressed my finger hard against it and watched the blood ooze out. It felt good.

I waited for a couple of hours. Long enough for the rats’ teeth to stop chewing up my insides and the subways in my head to call it a day. On the way back to Manhattan, I kept my thoughts on how I was going to get my great-grandmother’s St. Christopher medal back.

I went over to Max’s apartment and cried out every drop of water in my body. He wanted to know what was wrong.

I told him Mrs. Ricklin’s dog got run over by a car.

Tom

Toward the end of March, leaving school one late afternoon, I spotted An-ling standing on the corner underneath a streetlamp.

She was in a clutch of students smoking, drinking soda, eating hot dogs from the vendor on the corner,pretending to belong among them. It was an unusually cold March—most days the temperature stayed in the mid- to high-thirties, with so much rain the reservoirs were overflowing—but she was standing there with her midriff bare, slacks tight enough to show the mound of her groin,over her chest something skimpy that the rain rendered transparent.

“Hi,Mister Professor,” she called out.“Hi,Tom.”

My chest tightened at the sight of her, but I walked right by. I half expected her to follow me as I climbed down the subway stairs. She was after something; I had no doubt about that, but what precisely that something was escaped me.

Seven,eight times I saw her over a two-week period and as the days passed an idea—more of a premonition, truth be told— began to take hold in my head. Her continued presence outside the college, waiting for me, gave me the feeling that something had gone wrong in her relationship with my wife.

I had no rational explanations to back me up, no known factors from which to gauge the situation and yet that is what I believed.I realize now that I was overcome with that most idiotic of sentiments,hope,which overrides all sensible thought.

After seeing An-ling for the third time in a week, I called Inez Serrano, a friend of Emma’s and her school director.

After much cajoling on my part, she told me Emma had been sleeping at the school for the past week and a half.

When I saw An-ling outside the college the next time, my chest tightened out of joy, not disgust. I believe I even flashed her a smile, one of triumph, but which she interpreted as a sign of encouragement to move on to her next nefarious step.

SIXTEEN

ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY Guzman hands some papers to a court officer, then shifts his glance to Judge Sanders.

“Your Honor, at this point I offer printouts of Joshua Howells’s emails as People’s Exhibit Fourteen.”

After the exhibit is labeled, the court officer hands the papers to the witness, Jerry Potarski, a large, pony-tailed police computer technician in his mid-twenties.

“Mr. Potraski, do you recognize the printouts now in your possession?”

“Sure do. They’re printouts of four e-mails I retrieved from Joshua Howells’ laptop computer.”

“How did you retrieve them?”

“I found them in the hard drive. They’d been deleted from the e-mail file.”

“When were these e-mails sent?”

Potarski looks through the printouts. “The first one is dated April thirteenth of last year, then April fourteenth, then April fifteenth. The last one is from April seventeenth.”

“Who were these e-mails addressed to?”

“Chinese canary at hotmail.com.”

“Were you able to discover who held the Chinese canary account?”

“An-ling Huang.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

Fishkin stands up. “No cross, Your Honor.”

Emma

I was back home, feeling like an intruder in the apartment I had shared with Tom and Josh for twelve years. I also felt ashamed and immensely stupid. That morning I had gathered my courage and called Tom to meet me there.

The sleigh bells on the front door jingled. Tom had attached them when we first moved in, to mark our comings and goings. I heard keys being tossed from hand to hand, the sound that had first made me notice Tom as we stood on line for a movie way back, twenty-six years ago.A lean, reserved profile, long sideburns already curling with gray, heavy-framed glasses, a chiseled face, reassuring in its strength.

“My father used to play music by tossing his keys,” I told him, standing two people behind him. “
Jailhouse Rock.
My mother would start singing.”

Tom laughed, guessing I’d made it up.

Now I rested my head on the back of the sofa and shut my eyes. Footsteps in the hallway came closer.Then a hush.

He’s on the carpet now, he’s seen me. Cold air dropped on my thighs as Tom lifted my coat off my lap.He removed my shoes, pressed his warm hands against my toes. I started to cry.Tom took his hands away.

“Are you planning to stay?” It surprised me how far away his voice sounded, how light in delivery his question was.

I felt a gust of cold air and opened my eyes to flapping curtains. Tom had opened the window. It was snowing, flakes swirling against the wall of the opposite building. A cold, demented April. It had been over two weeks since I had told An-ling I never wanted to see her again. I had screamed my fury at her for the whole building to hear.

My coat was neatly folded over the armchair.

“I’ve been sleeping at the school.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.Tom was going to think I was begging for sympathy.

“Have you left her?”Tom asked.

“I want to come home.”

Tom stood immobile across the living room, with my boots in his hands. I always forgot how tall he was. Tree Tom, I used to call him, telling him he was the only tree I wanted to climb. My boots were wet.They were going to stain the carpet.

“Is it over?”

“Yes.” I sat up. “An-ling is over. Do you want to know why I’ve come home?”What would I tell him? That she stole money from me, stayed out all night, did drugs—lies that would satisfy his opinion of her? No, I wasn’t going to besmirch her to satisfy my anger or Tom’s. The truth belonged to Josh. Only he had the right to tell it. What I could tell my husband was that regardless of what An-ling had done, I was coming home anyway.Would he believe me?

“I’ve stopped requiring details from you, Emma.”

“Aren’t you at least curious?”

“You’ve never been very good at explanations for your actions.”

“You’re right,Tom. I can’t explain them even to myself.

If you had called just—” I broke off my sentence. “How is Josh? He cancelled last Sunday, said he had a cold. I miss him.”

Tom was looking at me warily.

“I miss him.” I repeated.

“He’s fine.” He went back to examining my shoes through his glasses. Black ankle boots, scuffed and dirty from bad weather.Tom, the family shoe-shine boy. Every Sunday with
The Times’
Help Wanted pages spread on the kitchen floor,Tom polished the family shoes, his, hers, Josh’s one pair of Timberlands even though they only got worn a couple of times a year. For Tom it was a Sunday ritual as sacred as Mass used to be for me. His way of making sure we put our best foot forward.

“I want to come back to be with you and Josh.”

Tom’s gaze stayed on the boots.

“Please.”

“I talked it over with him at breakfast this morning,”Tom said slowly.

“What did he say?”

“I knew you’ve been sleeping at the school.”

“What did he say?”

“Josh would be happy if you came back.”

“He said that?” I so wanted to believe it.