Miracle Creek(55)

“So you admit that your bank records prove you went to this 7-Eleven multiple times, but you claim you don’t remember being there, is that right?”

Pak said, still looking down, “I do not remember.”

“Much like you can’t remember buying cigarettes last summer?”

“Objection, badgering the witness,” Abe said.

“Withdrawn,” Shannon said, and continued. “Didn’t you go to 7-Eleven on August 26, mere hours before the explosion?”

“No!” Outrage powered Pak’s voice and brought color back to his face. “I never go to 7-Eleven. Never, and not day of explosion. I never leave my business all day.”

Shannon raised her brows. “So you didn’t leave your property at all that day?”

Pak opened his mouth eagerly, and Young expected him to say “Yes!” but instead, his mouth closed and his body slumped like a punctured blow-up toy, losing air fast. Shannon said, “Mr. Yoo?” and Pak looked up. “I remember now, I went shopping. We needed baby powder.” He looked at the jurors. “We use it on oxygen helmet seal. For sweat. To keep dry.”

Young remembered Pak saying they needed more powder but he couldn’t leave with the protesters on-site. And later, before the last dive, he’d grabbed cornstarch from the kitchen as an alternative to powder. So why was he lying?

“Where did you go?” Shannon said.

“Walgreen to get baby powder. Then ATM near there.”

“Mr. Yoo, please read the line dated August 26, 2008, on your bank statement.”

Pak nodded. “‘ATM cash. One hundred dollars. 12:48 p.m. Creekside Plaza, Miracle Creek, Virginia.’”

“That’s the ATM you went to, after Walgreens?”

“Yes.” Young thought back. 12:48, during lunch break. He’d asked her to prepare lunch while he went to reason with the protesters once more. He’d returned twenty minutes later, saying he’d tried and they wouldn’t listen. Had he gone out to town instead? But why? Shannon put another picture on the easel. “Is this the Creekside Plaza ATM?”

“Yes.” The picture showed the entire “plaza,” which sounded grand but was actually just three stores and four empty storefronts with “For Lease” signs. The ATM was in the center, next to Party Central.

“What I find interesting is this 7-Eleven, right behind this plaza. You see it, right?” Shannon pointed at the unmistakable stripes in the corner.

Pak didn’t look at the picture, just said, “Yes.”

“I also find it interesting that you went to this ATM, miles away from Walgreens, even though there’s an ATM inside Walgreens, which you seem to use regularly, based on your bank statement. Do I have that right?”

“I did not remember I need cash until after Walgreen.”

“It’s strange how you didn’t remember you needed cash while paying for powder, with your wallet out, at Walgreens,” Shannon said, then smiled and started walking back to her table.

Pak looked up and said, “Walgreen sell cigarettes.”

Shannon turned. “I’m sorry?”

“You think I use Plaza ATM because I go to 7-Eleven for cigarettes. But if I want cigarettes, why I would not buy at Walgreen?” Of course. Shannon’s argument didn’t hold up. Young felt a thrill of triumph at Pak’s logic, at his look of pride, at the jurors’ nods at him.

Shannon said, “Because I don’t think you went to Walgreens that day. I think you went to 7-Eleven to get Camels and went to the ATM nearby, and Walgreens is something you came up with today to explain why you left your business.” If Shannon had shouted this or said it in a gotcha! way, Young could’ve dismissed it as the rantings of a biased enemy. But Shannon said it gently, with the regretful tone of a teacher telling a kindergartner his answer was wrong—not wanting to, but forced to by duty—and Young found herself agreeing, knowing that Shannon was right. Pak hadn’t gone to Walgreens. Of course he hadn’t. But where had he gone, to do what, that he’d hidden from her, his wife?

Abe objected, and the judge told the jury to disregard the last exchange. Shannon said, “Mr. Yoo, isn’t it true that you smoked daily for about twenty years before last summer?”

Young could almost hear the whirs inside his brain trying to figure out how to avoid the resigned “Yes” he eventually muttered.

“How did you quit?” Shannon said.

Pak frowned, seemed puzzled. “I just … not smoke.”

“Really? You must have used gum or patches, surely.” There was an incredulity in Shannon’s voice, but it wasn’t hostile. It was gentle—admiring, even—and again, Young found herself sympathizing with Shannon, questioning, how did he manage to cut off a twenty-year habit so easily? She could see the same question in the jurors’ faces.

“No. I just stop.”

“You just stopped.”

“Yes.”

Shannon looked at Pak for a long moment, both their eyes unblinking like in a staring contest. Shannon broke the stare, blinked, and said, “Okay. You just stopped.” The way she smiled, she may as well have been a mother, patting her three-year-old’s head, saying, You saw a purple elephant dancing in your room? Okay. Of course you did, sweetheart. “Now, before you”—she paused—“quit smoking, was Camel your favorite?”