Little Deaths(76)

“I’ve filed a motion that Mrs. Malone should not be questioned on the stand about her extramarital relationships. But it’s probable the motion will be rejected, and that will mean that Mrs. Malone cannot give evidence.”

“Why would it be rejected?”

“They think it’s relevant, Mr. Wonicke. They think her relationships are relevant to this crime.”

He sighed. “And the coverage in the press is driving that idea. That said, as much as your ex-colleagues are giving her a rough time, what people are saying in the street is far worse.”

“What do you mean, worse?”

Scott took a breath. “I had dinner last night with an old friend, in a restaurant not far from here. A nice place. Nice people. I heard two women behind me talking about the case and about Mrs. Malone. One of them said—please excuse the expression—‘I’m going to the trial. I want to see that bitch get what she deserves.’ And the other said, ‘I know just what you mean. I don’t like to prejudge but in this case it’s difficult not to. A tramp like that is capable of anything.’ ”

He put down his fork then and wrinkled his nose.

“This cake’s stale.”


Scott told Ruth that the court appearance was a formality, that she would be granted bail that afternoon. He asked who would post it and she said, “My mother.”

She thought of her mother’s lined red face, her rough red hands. Her mother’s prayers at her father’s bedside. Her anger. Her shame.

“My mother will post bail.”

Then they talked about the trial in general terms: who would be there, who would be allowed to speak. He told her that she would not be called as a witness, would not have to take the stand. That she would not have a voice.

And when she asked why, he only said, “It’s best this way, trust me.”

She was trying to trust him, but she felt his reluctance to trust her. He didn’t trust her to remain calm. Didn’t trust her not to get angry, not to get emotional, not to show the court her defiance. He didn’t trust that she would not be tripped and tricked into revealing that the stories about her—the men, the drinking, the sex—were true.

So he thought it was best that she sit quietly with her eyes downcast and her lips pressed together behind a white lace handkerchief.

When they were done talking, he began to pack up his papers. But he spent so long shuffling and stacking them to make the edges neat that she knew he had something else to say, so she folded her hands and waited. And eventually his eyes rose to meet hers and he closed his briefcase and cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Malone. We need to talk about your appearance.”

His voice was gentle. He was trying to be kind.

Ruth looked at his expensive suit, at his neatly pressed shirt. Smelled his woody cologne and wondered if his wife bought him a bottle for Christmas every year. She imagined the wife: ironing his shirts, sponging his tie, starching his collars. She imagined neat gray hair, a light dusting of face powder, fresh pink blouses, a discreet string of pearls. The smells of clean laundry, of lavender skin cream.

“I’m sorry to be so personal. But it is relevant. The more conservative you appear, the more chance you have of appealing to the jury. The prosecution will do their best to make sure the jurors are as conventional as possible.”

She thought: he is doing his job the best way he knows how.

But every word he spoke was a judgment on how she looked. On every blemish, every pore, every line.

“Perhaps if you just toned down the color of your hair a little? Or wore a more subdued style? And perhaps dressed a little more modestly?”

His words were like fishhooks, ripping into her skin, showing the soft and vulnerable underpart of her. The part that was weak. Ugly. Wrong.

She scrabbled for the scent of lavender again but all she could smell was sweat, bleach, old food. The stink of fear and despair.


A month later, Scott arranged a meeting at his office for Ruth and Salcito. She dressed carefully in a neat pink suit, low heels, her hair freshly washed and set, and she drove downtown, her face pale from lack of sleep.

She still didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. Scott had talked to her, told her that she had to be seen to be with Frank, that their marriage had to appear solid—but she couldn’t help feeling the pity of what she was about to do. This seemed cold.

Although she was early, Johnny was there already, talking to Scott in the lobby. He was leaning unsteadily against the wall, his voice slurred. He looked like he hadn’t been to bed.

Scott offered them coffee and when they declined, gestured toward his office, said he would leave them to it.

Ruth walked in and sat in one of the high-backed chairs that faced the desk. She crossed her legs, folded her hands, took a breath. But it was useless: as soon as Scott had closed the door on them, Johnny was on the floor at her feet, embracing her legs, crying, telling her he loved her, how much he’d missed her. She fought down irritation, frustration, pity, raised him up and sat him in a chair, let him hold her hand. Tried for a brisk but serious tone.

“I’m sorry, Johnny, but I won’t be able to see you for a while. Mr. Scott says it wouldn’t look right before the trial.”

“What about after the trial?”

“Well, we’ll see.”

“Once you’re free, we can get back to how things were, huh, baby? Maybe take a trip, whaddya say?”