A Good Marriage(39)

I flipped to the middle of the second journal, with more girlish script.

May 2005

I got a job at the Bishop’s Motel! Where Momma worked, cleaning rooms just like her. The manager, Al, said absolutely no way at first. I guess it’s illegal to let somebody work at thirteen (stupid). He caved when I started to cry (wasn’t even on purpose). It’s only part-time, so it’s not going to take care of the back rent right away. But it’s a start. I’ll hide the money better this time, too. Daddy’s gotten good at finding things. The pills—they give him a lot more energy.



So far, I’d managed to keep Amanda, the person, a hazy image at arm’s length. But now I felt swamped by sadness, guilt, too, for all that I’d taken for granted. Amanda had been only thirteen when she’d started working at a motel to support her possibly drug-abusing father. And she’d been excited about it.

I’d been thirteen when I’d sat down in that booth with Millie, excited about my new freedom to walk those few blocks alone. Because my mother had loved me too much to let me go. How much better I’d had it. And look what a mess my life had still become.





Grand Jury Testimony




MAX CALDWELL,


called as a witness the 6th of July and was examined and testified as follows:





EXAMINATION


BY MS. WALLACE:

Q: Mr. Caldwell, thank you for coming in to testify today.

A: You’re welcome.

Q: How did you come to be at the party at 724 First Street on July 2nd of this year?

A: My wife knows Maude from Brooklyn Country Day. Our kids go to school there.

Q: Before her death, did you know Amanda Grayson?

A: No. I’d never met her.

Q: Did you know of her?

A: No, I did not. My wife might have.

Q: Do you know Zach Grayson?

A: No. I think I might have heard of his company before. And now because of this … But not before.

Q: I’d like to show you a picture.

(Counsel approaches witness with photograph, which is marked as People’s Exhibit 5.)

Q: Is this a picture of the man you saw at the party that night?

A: Yes.

Q: Let the record reflect that People’s Exhibit 5 is a photograph of Zach Grayson. Where did you see him?

A: I saw him talking to some woman about Terry’s Bench. You know, the Tinder for married people? The woman was drunk and seriously pissed. She kept telling everybody at the party that her husband was on there.

Q: What did Mr. Grayson say to her?

A: That he had to go home to get some sleep. That he had something he had to do early in the morning. I remember because I thought it was bullshit.

Q: What do you mean?

A: The way he said it. It sounded like an excuse. I thought: That guy wants to get away from that woman. Like I said, she was pissed and drunk. Maybe he also wanted to leave the party. But it is like the only good thing that ever happens in Park Slope. I did sort of wonder if he was having an affair. Why otherwise would you leave a sex party unless it was for sex somewhere else?

Q: Did you see him actually leave?

A: He headed toward the front door.

Q: What time was that?

A: 9:35.

Q: Are you sure?

A: Yes. I checked my watch when he said he had to go to bed. I thought maybe I’d lost track of time and it was later than I thought. That’s the kind of party it is. It makes you lose track of everything.





Lizzie





JULY 7, TUESDAY


I’d just arrived back at my office when the phone rang. It was precisely 7:00 p.m., Zach’s appointed time. I looked down at my notes: “Warrant? Time line of night? Witnesses to Zach’s walk? Amanda’s friends, enemies? Flowers? Pregnant? Sex party?”

So many questions, but not all for right now. That last one, though, I had underlined. The sex party was an even worse fact than the pregnancy. Jurors would easily be able to imagine one spouse killing another after they’d agreed to something like that. Something that might seem like harmless good fun beforehand. Something that could not be undone after the fact. They might even want to punish Zach for breaking the rules of fidelity they were forced to live by. That was the way juries worked, judges sometimes, too. Because they were human beings. And human beings couldn’t help but take things personally.

“Hello?” I answered.

“You have a collect call from a New York State correctional facility—”

I hit the number 1 on my phone.

“Hi, Zach.”

“Hey, Lizzie. Thanks for taking the call.” His voice was low and a little distorted, like Sam’s when he’d been drinking.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You sound … strange.”

“I, um.” He took a breath. “Had another run-in with some bars of a cell. But I—really I’m fine. My lip is swollen. That’s what you’re hearing.”

“Jesus, Zach, again?” My stomach tightened. I really, really hated this. Thanks to Paul, everything that happened to Zach while he was stuck in Rikers now felt like my fault. “What happened this time?”

“I’d really rather not get into it,” he said. “The details don’t make it better. Trust me.”