With Malice (30 page)

I'd never seen myself as the kind of person who would hide from the truth.

But if my dream was accurate, it had started as an accident. Simone had as much involvement as me. After what she did—in some ways she owed me. Simone didn't want a best friend; she wanted a minion. When I hadn't toed the line, she'd tried to take me down a notch, teach me a lesson. Whatever reason Simone had, or gave herself, it didn't excuse what she did. She had hurt me. Maybe she hadn't meant it to be as bad as it was—but I hadn't meant to hurt her, either.

You could see it as the whole thing balancing out.

It was a different courtroom, but it looked exactly the same as the first one. It made me uneasy, almost like déjà vu.

“All rise,” the bailiff called out, and there was a scrape of chairs and rustling as everyone stood.

Judge Rendahl took her seat, her robe billowing, like a crow settling its wings.

“We're here today to discuss the appeal to the extradition request,” Judge Rendahl said. “I understand Detective Alban has requested to make a statement?”

Evan shifted in his seat. This explained why we'd had to come back to court. He'd told me that typically the judge would issue her ruling without us having to meet again. He'd said there was no reason to worry, but I could see the look he gave my parents. He thought the Italians might have won and I was going to be taken into custody.

I'd refused to wear the outfit my mom brought. If there was going to be an arrest, then I wanted to go in my own clothing, not dressed like a puritanical librarian. We'd fought about it. I knew she thought I was being unreasonable, but none of it mattered. The judge had already made a decision. If I showed up in an angel outfit complete with feather wings, it wasn't going to change her mind.

I wondered what else the Italian detectives had found. I was certain they weren't here to repeat what they'd said a million times before. They must have some new evidence. Or perhaps a witness.

The media expected me to be arrested. They'd shown up early, rustling and pushing toward the front like eager puppies. They'd called out my name when we walked up the stairs to the courthouse. I'd practiced my look in the mirror in the bathroom before we'd left. I couldn't scowl, or I'd look mean. I couldn't smile—in case it came across as taking things too lightly. I couldn't cry—that would make me look guilty, as if the weight of my sin was wearing me down. The goal was to look neutral. A dispassionate observer.

The media didn't scare me anymore. They were swinging to my side. They were prepared to be outraged on my behalf. They wanted to be upset, to take up my cause. Being arrested wouldn't be the end; it would be the beginning of the next stage. The Italians wanted control. They didn't want to have to bow and scrape to the American system. They wanted me in their court, but that didn't mean they would win. Of course there were at least a few people who wanted me to go down. The
Justice for Simone
website was still calling for my blood. They didn't think much of the video from the police or the people saying there wasn't enough proof. They said they didn't need proof. Where there was smoke, there was fire. I was guilty. They'd want a front-row seat for anything that happened in Italy.

Detective Alban stood. “I thank the court for this indulgence.”

I could hear the whir of cameras behind me. They'd been allowed in the courtroom today. A line of them, an honor guard along the back wall.

“Before Your Honor rules, the prosecutor in Italy has requested that I speak today,” Detective Alban said.

I took a slow breath in. When he announced the condition of my arrest, I didn't want to give him the pleasure of seeing me break. I practiced the visualization I'd learned with Dr. Weeks. I pictured my veins filled with cool water and imagined it traveling through my body, slowing my heart and breathing.

“We believe that Miss Charron has not told the true story. We are not medical doctors, so it is outside our expertise if Miss Charron really cannot remember or if she is choosing to not remember.” Detective Alban paused. If he thought I was going to break down and blurt out a confession, he would wait a long time.

Detective Alban continued. “Our court system has determined that there is insufficient evidence to prosecute Miss Charron. In recent days, several other credible causes for the accident have been raised. As a result, the death of Ms. McIvory has been deemed an accident. We are dropping all charges and, as a result, also our application for extradition.”

I heard my mom cry out. There was a loud murmur from the court audience, and Judge Rendahl slammed her gavel down on her desk.

“Order in this court,” she demanded, and the chatter stopped. Detective Alban was already sitting, tapping his papers into order and tucking them into his folder.

Had I heard him correctly? My efforts to keep control were failing. My hands started shaking, and the tremors traveled up my arms into my core. I could feel myself vibrating. They were dropping the charges. They were dropping the charges. They were dropping . . . the charges.

Evan reached over and squeezed my forearm.

“What—” Every word I could think of was gone.

“Hang in there,” Evan said. He stood. “Your Honor, in light of the revelations from the Italian court—”

Judge Rendahl waved him off. “No need for a speech, Mr. Stanley. Given that the application has been dropped, there is no ruling from this court. Miss Charron, you are free to go.”

The word
free
bounced around my head. Even the idea of it tasted delicious. I stood along with the rest of the court as Judge Rendahl exited.

As soon as the door to her chamber closed, my parents surrounded me, a family hug. My mom was crying, big, sobbing tears. My dad kept thumping me on the back, murmuring, “That's my girl, that's my baby girl.”

Evan stood next to us. He had his hands on his hips, his pelvis jutting forward, like he was about to lean his head back and howl his victory to the sky.

“Is that it?” I asked, my voice quaking. It didn't seem possible it could be over that quickly, just disappear in a poof. Like popping a nightmare balloon. I could feel laughter bubbling up inside me, but I wasn't sure if it was okay to let it out.

Evan threw his arm around me and hugged. “That's it. It's over.”

My knees melted, and if Evan hadn't been standing next to me, I would have crumpled to the floor.

“Hey, now, take it easy.” Evan guided me back into my seat. “Take a second to get your legs under you.”

The bailiff was clearing the court, but left us alone. My dad turned on his phone and called my stepmom with the news. My mom couldn't stop touching me, petting my hair, running her hand down my arm, or kissing my temple. It was as if she thought if she didn't make contact, then I might disappear.

“If you're up to making a statement, that would be great,” Evan said. “If you think you're not ready, that's okay too. There will be a lot of opportunities.” He glanced at my dad. “I'd suggest that you might want to think about letting my firm negotiate the deals.”

“Deals for what?” Dad asked.

“The media will likely pay for exclusive interviews—
20/20, Dateline.
They've been nosing around already, and this ruling will bring them out in droves. There's also a good chance of a book deal, maybe a TV movie based on your story. The fees would likely cover your costs, and you'd have enough left over to make a dent in that college tuition.”

I felt a prickle of excitement. The money didn't excite me, but the image of a book jacket with my face on it floated in front of me. A chance to tell my story, or at least a version of my story.

“Today has been a lot. If you feel you're not ready, we can do a short written statement later,” Evan said.

“No, I want to say something,” I said.

Less than a half hour later, we walked outside into the bright sunshine. Evan stepped to the front and smiled at the squadron of microphones in front of him. He'd taken time to slick back his hair. He was going to miss the spotlight, but my having gotten off was going to work well for him. A feather in his cap. He raised his hand to make sure he had everyone's attention.

“Now, we're not going to answer questions, but Jill does have a statement to make.” Evan stepped back and motioned for me to take his place.

The chatter of camera shutters sounded like a swarm of bees. I glanced down at the paper I'd scribbled on to make sure I remembered each bulleted point. I said a silent prayer that my aphasia would stay away.

“As you can imagine, I am very grateful for today's announcement, and I look forward to returning home and to my family. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the entire staff of St. Regis Rehabilitation Hospital—in particular, Dr. Weeks—for their support and guidance during this difficult period of my recovery. I also wish to thank Evan Stanley for his help.” I turned and smiled at him, and he nodded with an aw-shucks type gesture. “Most of all, I need to thank my parents and stepmom, whose faith in me never wavered and gave me strength to keep going. I couldn't have done this without them.”

Mom sniffed loudly, and I could tell she was trying everything to hold it together. The reporters were all nodding and smiling at me. They loved me. Just a week ago, they'd been ready to stone me in the street, but everything was different now. Now I was innocent.

“I'm looking forward to taking the next steps in my life. I will never forget Simone. I learned so much from her.” My voice shook, and I looked down at the paper again. The quaver was faked, but I could tell from the audience reaction that it was perfect. It was what they wanted.

“I'll remember her always.” I touched my chest lightly, as if I had a piece of her tucked into my heart for safekeeping. The rustling clicking of cameras erupted again, catching the perfectly formed tear that hovered for a dramatic second in my eye and then fell.

A wave of questions rushed up at me. Each reporter screaming out louder than the next to be heard.

Evan stepped in front of me and waved them down. “We won't be taking questions at this time.” He gestured for me to walk back into the courthouse. I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back, letting everyone get one more shot. I'd learned more from Simone than I was going to admit.

I hadn't chosen for it to end this way, but now that it had, I was going to take a lesson from her book. The ends justified the means. A girl does what she has to. This was how it had turned out, and it would have been foolish for me to not take advantage of it. It's what Simone would have done. I'd gone to Italy because I wanted my life to change. And it had. In a way I'd never imagined. And I hadn't lied to the reporters. I was carrying a bit of Simone with me. I'd learned what she'd tried to show me all the time. That there is no black-and-white justice—there's what people need to do to survive.

The corners of my mouth curled up. And who knew? Maybe my memories weren't even accurate. Dr. Weeks would tell me that the brain can do amazing things. Either way, it didn't matter. The truth—and how I chose to tell it—was now up to me.

First, thanks to you for picking up this book and giving it a read. Feel free to write your name in here and point it out to your friends and family. A writer without readers is a lonely creature.

This book wouldn't exist without my agent Barbara Poelle, who encouraged me to write it and wasn't afraid to push me to make it better. I would lavish her with spendy handbags and eternal gratitude any day. I am truly fortunate to have her in my corner.

Writing may be a solo sport, but publishing takes a team effort. I am grateful every day that my editor Sarah Landis embraced this project and made me a part of the HMH team. She moved mountains to get this book ready and I am forever grateful for her ability to bend deadlines using only the power of her mind. Thanks also go to Ann Dye, Lisa DiSarro, and Linda Magram in Marketing; Meredith Wilson and Karen Walsh in Publicity; Amy Carlisle, managing editor; Mary Wilcox, editor in chief; Betsy Groban, publisher; Maire Gorman, Sales; and Christine Kettner, Design. And for a cover to die for, hugs and kisses go to Erin Fitzsimmons. For all things foreign, I have relied on Heather Baror-Shapiro, who has been nothing short of amazing.

I am lucky to have the best friends and family, so thanks to all of you for the support and laughter. I couldn't do it without you. Especially my parents, who were, if possible, more excited than I was about this book. Extra thanks to Kelly Charron, Joanne Levy, and Denise Jaden, who read early versions of this, helped to brainstorm plot holes, and cheered me on to the finish line. To David's Tea, which supplies me with the caffeine needed to get through a day—thank you a million times over.

I need to thank my husband, Bob, for traveling with me to Italy and standing by while I researched Jill's journey. I owe you another trip, this time without constant note-taking. For not thinking my fascination with making stuff up is crazy, I will always love you. Lastly, thanks to my dog Cairo, chewer of shoes, digger of holes, and constant writer companion.