A Good Marriage(47)

When I was finished, I saved the motion document and pulled one of Amanda’s journals from my bag. What I really needed was her most recent one—but I’d have to go back to Zach’s to look for that. In the meantime, I couldn’t stop reading the older ones. It was a compulsion now, like gawking at somebody else’s car accident to distract from your own wreckage.

Finally I got to an entry that made clear what had happened to Amanda all those years ago was even worse—so much fucking worse—than I’d ever imagined.

March 2004

I watch the cross on the living room wall and pray that little Jesus will tug himself down and help me. So far he hasn’t. But maybe it has to be your cross. This one was on the trailer wall when we moved in.

He always does it there in the living room. Right under the cross. On the rough yellow couch. Maybe out there it’s easier for Daddy to pretend he’s not really doing it.

But he is. Little Jesus knows.



As I climbed the steps to the Hope First building a half hour later I still felt sick. Amanda’s father had raped her, repeatedly. When she was twelve. Raped as a child and now she was dead. It was horrifying. All of it. My phone buzzed with a text, when I was almost at the door, snapping me out of my numb haze. It was Paul’s friend from the DA’s office, Steve Granz: Wendy Wallace. Sorry.

That was it. The whole text. While the name didn’t mean anything to me, evidently having Wendy Wallace assigned to prosecute Zach’s case was not good news, at least as far as Steve was concerned.

I quickly googled Wendy Wallace as I pressed the buzzer for the Hope First Initiative. “Three Heirs to the Throne” was the first article that popped up. I tapped on it and skimmed. As Zach’s public defender had mentioned, there was indeed a high-profile contest brewing for a handpicked successor to the Brooklyn DA. In Brooklyn, the real race was always the primary, since no Republican stood a chance, and Wendy Wallace, the Homicide Bureau’s chief prosecutor, was one of three leading contenders. The knock against her was that she lacked name recognition, but a case like Zach’s would solve that problem. Her name would be all over the papers, even better if that coverage were strategically timed to maximize her involvement. This was surely the reason the most salacious details hadn’t yet been in the papers.

“Hello?” A crackly voice through the intercom. I’d forgotten that I’d even rung the buzzer. “Can I help you?”

“Lizzie Kitsakis,” I said. “Zach Grayson’s attorney.”

Such a long silence followed, I started to wonder if she’d heard me.

Finally, there was a buzz. I pushed through the two sets of locked doors and into the polished lobby.

The elevator opened directly into the Hope First Initiative offices, a bright open space with wood floors the color of wheat, vibrant yellow walls, and endless windows. There was a reception desk with a sign overhead—HOPE FIRST INITIATIVE—in playful blue type. And not a soul in sight.

“What do you want?” came a voice from behind me.

When I turned, there was a petite woman with short, dark brown hair standing near an office door, a sweater wrapped tight around her shoulders. Her pretty face was ashen and drawn.

She was Amanda’s friend, I reminded myself. She’s grieving. It’s not personal.

“I have a few questions,” I began. “Like I said in my voice mail.”

“Why would I answer any of your questions when you’re defending that monster?”

“Monster?” I asked stupidly.

Sarah advanced toward me so quickly that I reflexively took a couple steps back. “Yeah, monster. He bashed her fucking head in with a golf club, and—” Her voice caught.

Shit. Sarah knew about the golf club? Cops and investigators often shared details with witnesses when it served their interests—to get them angrier at a defendant, to make them more sympathetic to the victim. To motivate them to help. These disclosures skirted right up to the line of unethical, but didn’t technically cross it. I’d done it myself. But, wow, did it seem unsavory now. Unsavory and effective.

“Nothing about the manner of Amanda’s death has been confirmed,” I said, careful to stay polite. “And I don’t think Zach killed her.”

It was a deliberate choice of words.

“You don’t think so?” Sarah huffed. The anger had brought some color back to her face. “Well, that’s not exactly a ringing endorsement. Aren’t you his attorney? If you aren’t even sure he’s innocent, then he must be guilty as hell.”

“To be clear, Zach hasn’t even been charged with murder. There was some sort of scuffle after he found his wife, during the course of which he accidentally struck an officer with his elbow. That’s what he was arrested for.”

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“And to clarify, I said I ‘think’ he’s innocent because I do strongly believe that’s the case. I could even offer you substantial evidence in support of my position. But it’s circumstantial. I imagine you’ll say it doesn’t prove what I say it does, and it seems you’ve already made up your mind. So instead of trying to convince you, I’d like to hear what you know.”

Sarah cocked her head, considering. Finally, her face softened the slightest bit.