Miracle Creek(54)

“Pak,” Abe said, “Matt Thompson told us that you ran into the fire, into the burning chamber, multiple times, even after you were severely injured. Why?”

This was not on the script, but strangely, Pak did not feel panic at having to give an unrehearsed answer. He looked to the gallery, to Matt and Teresa, the other patients behind them. He thought of the children, Rosa in the wheelchair, TJ flapping his arms like a bird, but most of all, Henry. Shy Henry, with eyes that always floated up, as if tethered to the sky. “This is my duty. My patients. I must protect them. My harm, it does not matter.” Pak turned to Elizabeth. “I tried to save Henry, but the fire…”

Elizabeth looked down, as if in shame, and reached for her water glass. Abe said, “Thank you, Pak. I know this is difficult. One final question. Once and for all, did you have anything whatsoever to do with the cigarette, the matches, anything even remotely related to setting the fire that killed two of your patients and nearly killed you and your daughter?”

He was opening his mouth to answer when he saw Elizabeth’s hand shake slightly bringing the water to her mouth. It came to him then, the familiar image that too often wormed its way out of the recesses of his mind to invade his dreams: a cigarette between gloved fingers, shaking slightly, moving toward a matchbook beneath the oxygen tube.

Pak blinked. He took in deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He reminded himself to forget that moment, just roll it into a tight ball and smother it away. He looked at Abe and shook his head. He said, “No, nothing. Nothing at all.”





YOUNG





WHEN ELIZABETH’S LAWYER SAID, “Good afternoon, Mr. Yoo,” the memory that rushed to Young was, strangely, of Mary’s birth. It must have been the look on Pak’s face: every muscle in his face clenched still into the emotionless mask of a man bracing himself to hide his fear. It was the same look he’d had nearly eighteen years ago (no, exactly eighteen years ago—Mary’s birthday was tomorrow, but it was already tomorrow in Seoul, where she’d been born) when the doctor came in with a grave look and walked the length of Young’s recovery room without a word. They’d had to do an emergency hysterectomy, the doctor said. At least the baby’s fine, he said. The baby was a girl. They were sorry. (Or was it, The baby was a girl—they were sorry?)

Like most Korean men, Pak had wanted a son, expected one. He’d tried to hide his disappointment; when his family bemoaned his misfortune in his only child being a girl, he said, “She’s as good as ten sons.” But a little too firmly, as if trying to convince them of something he didn’t quite believe. Young heard the strain in his voice, the false brightness he’d tried to inject, making his voice higher-pitched than usual.

Which was exactly how he sounded now, saying, “Good afternoon.”

Elizabeth’s lawyer didn’t spend any time buttering him up, like she had with the others. “You said you’ve never been to a 7-Eleven around here, is that correct?”

“Yes. I never saw. I do not know the locations,” Pak said, and Young smiled. Abe had told him not to simply say “yes,” that that’s what she needed to trap him. Elaborate, explain, he’d said, and Pak was doing just that.

Shannon lowered her chin, smiled, and stepped toward Pak like a hunter with prey. “Do you have an ATM card?”

“Yes.” Pak frowned, probably mystified by the sudden change in topic.

“Does your wife use that card?”

Pak’s frown deepened. “No. My wife has separate card.”

Shannon handed him a document. “Recognize this?”

Pak flipped through. “It is my bank account statement.”

“Please read for us the highlighted lines under ‘ATM cash withdrawals.’”

“June 22, 2008—ten dollars. July 6, 2008—ten dollars. July 24, 2008—ten dollars. August 10, 2008—ten dollars.”

“What’s the location for those four entries?”

“It is 108 Prince Street, Pine Edge, Virginia.”

“Mr. Yoo, do you remember what’s at that location, 108 Prince Street in Pine Edge?”

Pak looked up, his face scrunched in concentration, and shook his head. “No.”

“Let’s see if we can refresh your recollection.” Shannon placed a poster on the easel: a picture of a 7-Eleven with an ATM under its orange-green-red-striped awning. Clearly visible on the glass door was the address—108 Prince Street, Pine Edge, VA. Young felt something drop in her stomach and grind against her bowels.

Pak held still, but his face paled into the weathered gray of a gravestone.

“Mr. Yoo, what is next to the ATM at this location?”

“7-Eleven is there.”

“You testified that you’ve never been to or even seen a 7-Eleven nearby, and yet there’s one at the ATM you used four times last summer. Do I have that right?”

“I do not remember this ATM. I never go there,” Pak said. His face looked resolute, but there was doubt in his voice. Could the jury hear it, too?

“Is there any reason to think your bank statement might be wrong? Was your card lost or stolen at all last summer?”

Something came to Pak then. A thought that excited him and caused him to open his mouth. But just as suddenly, he closed his mouth and lowered his eyes. “No. No stolen.”